


Price of the Debtor

by ashitanoyuki



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Future, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Angel/Human relationship, Angels, Angst, Broken Castiel, Escaped slave Gabriel, Future, Genetic Testing, Genetic Testing Labs, Gore, Government, Human Rights, Interspecies, Lab rat, Lab rat Castiel, M/M, Medical, Medical Experiments, Medical slavery, Medicine, Original Culture, Personhood, Political, Politics, Slave Castiel, Slavery, Social Justice, Testing - Freeform, Testing Labs, War, World Government, mentions of rape/noncon, rights
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-10
Updated: 2014-05-30
Packaged: 2017-12-26 04:14:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 19
Words: 65,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/961435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashitanoyuki/pseuds/ashitanoyuki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The year is 2786. 140 years ago, the world government announced the successful culmination of its high-profile genetic experiments. The result, the government claimed, lay in genetically engineered "miracle medical equipment" called angels.</p><p>Dean Winchester has never bought the official line that angels are mindless. When he was four years old, a very human-seeming angel was brought in to heal his dying mother. Now that he has been a member of an angel rights group for ten years, he is assigned to work undercover at a testing lab.</p><p>Samael Watchkeeper knows that he was born a human, but he has very few memories of his time living with them. Raised by a tribe of angels, he has grown up with hardly a reminder that he was born human. When his guardian’s brother, Gabriel, escapes from captivity among the humans, Samael decides to return to his biological people as an envoy.</p><p>Instrument 35712 has never known a breath of free air, has never spread his wings and flown. Now the property of a genetic testing lab, he spends his miserable days begging for death, until a new engineer shows up, who seems to actually see him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introduction

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is my first attempt at building a completely original world. Hopefully I can do it justice! I have never written sci-fi, and while the future setting is not the focus of the fic, since it sets up the world, it does play a key role. Please give me advice where it is useful, and ask questions if something is unclear.
> 
> This is not a happy story, but the beginning is certainly the part with the most angst. And oh boy, there is much angst. Please do not read if you're looking for something happy.
> 
> I'm not sure how often I will update. This is a story I have been working on in my spare time, and I'm already working on three other massive fics. I have written several chapters, though, so I see little harm in posting for now. Updates will probably increase in speed when I've finished writing Biological Imperative, as that is taking most of my time at the moment.
> 
> So, yes. Please tell me your thoughts on the story! I love hearing from you guys--seriously, comments make my day. 
> 
> I will be posting additional info about this world at http://ashitanoyuki-on-ao3.tumblr.com/The-Price-of-the-Debtor if you feel inclined to check it out! I have not put anything up yet, but when I do I will let you know.

At a mere four years of age, Dean Winchester had lost his home, nearly lost his mother, seen his first angel, and formed the one important belief that he would proudly claim held influence over every facet of his life. Angels were people just as much as humans, and deserved to be treated as sentient, autonomous beings.

Society as a whole did not agree. Angel rights activists were viewed on approximately the same level as historical animal rights and environmental groups—extremist fools who would sacrifice mankind for the sake of their precious beasts. Dean had never been able to bring himself to care. By age ten, he had wired his portable net link to receive updates from every major angel rights website and forum he had been able to find with his limited internet time; in middle school, he had founded a small angel rights supporter’s club amongst his friends and peer group. On his eighteenth birthday he had received an official member’s badge and paperwork from People for Angels for People, affectionately called PAP by its members and "crap" by the majority of the country. “They’re government property, living medical equipment,” was the sentiment that most people held about angels. They were a World Government project, after all. One hundred forty years ago, the government had pardoned several prisoners from Death Row on the condition that they submit to genetic testing, and from those tests, angels had been created.

The official line was that the genetic testing performed on the prisoners had granted them physical superiority over humans at the cost of their sentience and free will. From human beings, they had simply become bodies, receptacles for the physicality of human experience, but without any of the things that made humans _people_. They did not think, nor did they feel beyond physical sensation. Mindless vegetables with the ability to heal in the blink of the eye and survive through fatal injuries and sicknesses, they were the perfect empty vessels into which to transfer human illness and wounds. At approximately the same time as the genetic tests had resulted in the creation of angels, researchers had created a technology of molecular transference, allowing physicians to transfer the plights of a given patient into another being, and angels were the perfect solution. No ethical dilemma over killing animals—angels could heal almost instantaneously from the words blights of mankind, eradicating cancer cells and knitting together shattered bone in the time it would take to make a pot of coffee. It was neat, practical, and wholly ethical.

That was the official line. The media touted it, the government confirmed it, and society as a whole believed it. Thinking otherwise made Dean a rare exception.

The memory was as fresh in his mind as if it had occurred yesterday, even though it had been over twenty years ago. Running after the gurney that wheeled his mother’s burnt, blackened body into a hospital room, tripping over his own feet as he sobbed, his baby brother tucked into his father’s arms, tears streaming down John’s face—it all could have been yesterday. The doctor’s voice was clear in his mind as any he had ever heard—calling a code blue, shouting for an angel. Dean remembered the soft, tawny wings of the short, thin man, and how the tears had dried abruptly on his face as he met rich, golden-brown eyes. Dean had stared, awed, as the doctor placed the winged man’s limp, unresisting hand on his mother’s burned, once-beautiful face.

The scream that tore from the angel’s throat had sent Dean clapping chubby hands over his ears. The burns had seemed to siphon off of Mary’s body, racing up the angel’s arm, blackening his flesh and fading, leaving behind smooth, flawless pink skin. The nurse had knelt beside Dean, assuring him that it was all right, the angel did not actually feel pain, the cries were simply a physical reaction to his body’s stimulus. But Dean had looked up into the man’s eyes, that rich, beautiful gold, watery and glazed with agony, and he had _known._ The nurse was wrong, and the angel was hurting.

Dean had tried to tell the doctor such, but the woman had ignored him, assuring John that Mary would be all right with a few days rest, and Dean was, like many small children, simply so overwhelmed with the stress of almost losing his mother that he thought he saw something that wasn’t there. The angel had been taken away, but not without turning to glance at Dean first. _Thank you for trying,_ the angel had mouthed, and again, no one had believed him.

For the next several years, John and Mary had entertained Dean’s notions about angels much in the same way as they would have entertained his insistence on the reality of an imaginary friend. And then, when Dean was nine years old, tragedy had struck the family. Five year old Sam had vanished, taken from his bed in the middle of the night, never to be found. Dean had discovered, in the difficult days to come, that he had to grow up very quickly, and for a while, angels were the farthest thing from his mind. By the time Sammy had been gone for a year, some of the pain had dulled and he was back into his precocious angel rights activism, but his parents no longer had any patience for hearing about the matter.

At twenty-eight years old, Dean had his degree in Engineering, a vintage ground-car, his own 2736 air car—what a sweet model she was—and his own house. None of that held a candle to the importance that his position in PAP. Now, after ten years of loyal membership, the higher-ups in the organization had seen fit to assign Dean to an undercover surveillance mission. Technically, it was not illegal, and Dean was determined to do the best that he could. He would be taking a job as an electrical engineer at one of the angel based genetic testing facilities scattered throughout the country, gathering information. Every tidbit he could snag would count. As soon as they could prove the sentience of angels, the organization could start a true push to end the dreadful institution of medical slavery, and bring freedom to the angels once and for all.

0o0o0o0o0

At twenty-four springs passing, Samael Watchkeeper ought to have been still a child, small and wide-eyed and under the protection of his elders. Humans had an accelerated aging rate, however, and three seasons to an angel had passed in the span of one season for him for his first fifteen springs. It had been a relief for both him and his guardian, Lucifer Soulstealer, when Naomi Spellcrafter had developed a syrup that would slow Samael’s aging process down to match the rest of the tribe’s. Samael was now the physical and mental equivalent of an angel of fifty-four springs, and would continue to grow at a regular pace, so long as he did not miss too many dosages. He regretted the many seasons that he had lost due to human growth, but at the same time, it was good that he could be of use to the tribe all the sooner.

Samael had only vague memories of his time living amongst his biological people. He had had a mother, a father, and a brother, he knew that. He had lived in their world of loud contraptions and strange devices, fated to grow up in a barbaric society until the night when Inias Blighthealer had crept into his human home and stolen him away. At the time, no human had ever lived among the angels, and Samael knew that he had been an experimental child. He was simply glad that he had been chosen, and taken from the barbarians who would have raised him to be a slavemaster and a brute, to live amongst the peaceful, civilized angels.

0o0

_It was loud in the mountaintop caverns, and the strangers with wings chattered in a language that Sam had never heard. He cried, kicking fruitlessly at the strange man who had grabbed him from his bed, screaming for his mother, his father, his big brother. The winged man who sat atop a pile of soft white pillows regarded him sternly, conferring with the dark man and the scarred man on either side of him._

_“This is a dangerous gamble, Inias,” the apparent leader said finally, regarding Sam’s captor with steely eyes. “The humans have taken so many of us already. There is nothing to suggest that they are anything other than malevolent beasts—beasts who may come looking for their stolen whelp.”_

_“I understand.” The harsh, steady tones of his captor rang hard in Sam’s ears, and he wailed, burying his face in his hands. He just wanted to go home! He wanted Dean! “But this child is young. He has not had the time to be indoctrinated into the barbarous ways of the humans. Many of us think that they might have the capacity for civility, and if we bring one of them up in our ways, and he grows up as any angel child would, then we will know for certain.”_

_“And what good would that knowledge bring us?” the dark man rumbled, raising his eyebrows as he stared down his nose as Sam. Sam whimpered, dropping his chin to his thin chest, rocking back and forth miserably._

_“There are a number of possibilities,” the man who had taken Sam said finally. He knelt and laid a gentle hand on Sam’s shoulder, rubbing his back soothingly. “If human children can be raised to be civilized, we can bring them up amongst us, and then send them as envoys to their people to beg the release of our brethren. They can work among our sentries, for if they are caught, they will not be enslaved as we would be. They can help us understand basic humanity, the better to know how they function, and how to save our brothers and sisters from their captivity.”_

_The three men atop the platform exchanged a shared glance. “We will test your theory, Inias,” the leader said after a long moment. “The child has nine years to prove that he can grow up as a decent being, a civilized person. If he succeeds, then by that point, he will be a full member of our tribe, and no further action will be taken. If he fails, he will be killed, and his body returned to the humans as an example.”_

_The man beside Sam smiled. “I am sure he will succeed,” he said gratefully._

_“Lucifer.” The scarred man turned his head towards the leader of the trio. “You have had the misfortune of living amongst humankind. You speak their language. Will you be able to take this child into your home and raise him, teaching him our ways and speech, without exacting reprisal upon him?”_

_“He is but a child,” the scarred man said dismissively. “I do not fear him. If Inias is confident that he can learn to be a civilized being, then I will gladly assist in his experiment.”_

_“Then take him into your home,” the leader said, his calm voice commanding and final. “Learn his human name, and christen him appropriately. Bring him up as your own, but do not grow attached to him until he has shown signs of civility and proper angelic behavior.”_

_The scarred man nodded and descended from the platform, coming to a halt in front of Sam. He crouched, and took Sam’s hands in his, gently pulling them away from his tear-streaked face._ “Little one, what is your name?” _he asked, the first English words that Sam had heard since he had been stolen away._

“S-Sam.” _He sobbed, throwing himself at the winged man, clinging to him as he wept._ “I want to go home. I miss Mama and Daddy and Dean!”

 _The man shushed him, gathering him gently up in his arms. “He calls himself_ Sam,” _the scarred man said, turning to face the two remaining on the platform. “I propose that we call him Samael. It will be simple enough for him to learn, as similar as it is to his human name.”_

_“Very well.” The dark man shared a glance with his fellow before continuing. “Take Samael and prepare him a place in your set. We will convene in a month for a report on his progress.”_

_The scarred man nodded, leaving the cavern at a steady clip, making his way towards a dense copse of trees._ “My name is Lucifer,” _he told Sam, leaping into the air and fluttering towards a small, camouflaged structure high up in the branches of an aspen tree._ “And you are _Samael_ from this point forth. You will be staying with me to learn the ways of the angels.”

“But I want my family,” _Sam sobbed, wiping his eyes hard with a pudgy hand._

 _Lucifer regarded him with sympathy._ “I know you do, _Samael,” he said, taking Sam’s hand lightly in his own._ “But we need you. You will grow, you will learn, and one day you will understand.”

0o0

Samael owed everything to Lucifer. It was Lucifer who had taught him Enochian, and who had raised him to understand proper culture and behavior. Lucifer had been the one who had sought out Naomi and begged her to create a draught that would allow Samael to age at a normal rate. Lucifer had taught him how to hunt, how to track, how to keep guard and watch, picking up every detail that might suggest that something was out of the ordinary. When Samael had grown too big to be carried from place to place, Lucifer had taught him how to climb, allowing Samael to make up for the handicap that was his lack of wings. Most importantly, he had ensured that even though Samael was not an angel himself, he never felt that he did not belong among his tribe. Samael might have been born a human, but he belonged among the angels, and Lucifer ensured that he never thought differently.

When he was a mere fifteen springs past, the equivalent of an angelic 45 seasons due to his then accelerated growth, Samael had been granted the name Watchkeeper. It was his duty to keep sentry for the tribe, warning his fellows when humans came too close, scaring away predators and interlopers. Even without wings, Samael was useful to his tribe, and the pride in being good at his job had blossomed in him swiftly and strongly. His birth may have lain with humans, but his birthright lay with the tribe, and Samael would give his life to keep his adopted people safe.

0o0o0o0o0

35712 had never known a breath of free air. He had been born on a breeding farm, a cruel institution designed to pump out angels for medical use and testing purposes. Female angels were expected to breed until their ovaries ran dry, at which point they would be sent back to the hospitals and the laboratories. Several male angels were kept at each farm, essentially at stud, forced to produce offspring for the unrelenting machine of medical production.

35712 did not know who his mother was, nor who his father was. He had lived at the farm, among his fellow angels, for the first fifteen years of his life, long enough to learn Enochian, the tongue of his people, and to be given a name, Castiel. His name and language, he had since been forced to remind himself of primarily in his head, for once he left the farm, he was no longer granted leave to speak. Humanity at large could not know that the angels had a culture, had the ability to understand language or name their own. The few times Castiel had been caught speaking in youthful foolishness after leaving the farm, he had been beaten, glossy black feathers ripped from his wings until even his accelerated healing abilities had unable to bring them back at a proper speed. It had not taken him long to learn.

At his first hospital, Castiel had become acquainted with a free-born angel, 13590, or Gabriel, as he informed Castiel he had been called. Gabriel had been Castiel’s rock, speaking to him through the bars of their cells whenever the guards had been out of earshot. He had spun for Castiel a picture of high mountains and tall trees, of cavernous meeting halls and warm homes made of wood and earth. Gabriel’s tribe had been comprised primarily of warriors, and Gabriel himself had been a young, proud warrior of 49 springs—49 years, he had explained to Castiel—when he had been taken, shot down with a sedative and dragged away to be broken of his culture. His brother Lucifer had come for him, and had been taken as well. But Lucifer was strong and proud, and he had escaped with his life, promising to come back for Gabriel as soon as he could rally the tribe. Gabriel had been shipped away before Lucifer could return, and he had never seen his brother again.

It was the sad lot of angels that they could never count on keeping a friendly connection. Castiel had hardly been fifty years old when a testing facility coordinator came nosing around the hospital, inclined upon selecting angels for research purposes. Castiel had been among those selected, and had been taken away from Gabriel, the closest thing to a friend he had ever had. He was only fifty two now, and yet every day, he begged for death.

Life at the hospital had been difficult and painful. Every day, Castiel had been forced to take illness and injury into his body, burning the infection from his own cells to spare the human from whom it had originated. Compared to the testing facility, the life had been a posh utopia. Here, Castiel passed his days in a cage so small he had to bend his head when he wanted to sit, his knees grazing bars if he let them fall away from his chest. Being in the cage, as terrible as it was, was nothing compared to what he endured out of it. His handler, a cruel man named Alastair, claimed to be interested in learning exactly how the angel’s healing process worked, so that genetic scientists could work it into the human genome. After a mere two years, Castiel was certain that this was not the man’s true intent. He was simply a sadist who took pleasure in hearing Castiel scream.

Castiel had seen attempted suicides back at the hospital, and had healed many of them himself. He longed for the freedom of human beings to bleed out from a simple blade to the wrists, for a body that would shut down if he simply fed it enough chemicals. Life as a test subject was not living at all; he was merely existing, and he had centuries to go before the sweet embrace of death finally claimed him.


	2. The New Engineer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean spends his first day undercover at the testing lab.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unsustainable update speed go! Having written ahead is a mixed blessing.
> 
> I'm planning the chapters in alternating point of views, i.e. Dean gets a chapter, then Sam, then Cas, then Dean again. I might have to break pattern if I want to introduce another character's perspective, but I don't see that happening, at least not any time soon. So, without further ado, have a Dean-perspective chapter!
> 
> Warning for vivisection and non-explicit gore.

“Your references are impressive,” research director Meg Masters said, glancing up from Dean’s record. Dean smiled, awkwardly pushing thick-framed glasses up his nose. Having grown up without any sort of visual impairment, it was hard to remember that he allegedly needed spectacles, but the glasses housed a hidden camera behind one-way glass frames, and he would need to wear them at all times to gather necessary footage. “Tell me, why do you want to work with our facility?”

 _Because I want to wrest every single angel from your damn greedy hands._ “I’m not getting the challenge I need at my current job, and I heard you guys are hiring,” Dean said easily, flashing the woman a charming grin. “I figured that being a research facility and all, you could use someone to keep the electrical equipment running smoothly. I’m one of the best qualified people you’ll ever get for that sort of thing.”

“Clearly. We don’t get many applicants with masters degrees outside of the direct research program.” A wide smile split the woman’s round face, and she stretched out a hand, her brown curls bouncing slightly with the motion. “Well, you've passed the initial background check. We still have to work the in-depth security clearance, but for now, everything seems to be in order. Welcome to the team, Dean Winchester.”

Dean shook her hand, savage triumph rising up in his chest. _Score._ His superiors from PAP would be proud. He was in.

Meg took Dean around the facility, giving him a basic tour of the premises. Dean knew better than to think that he would get in to any of the testing rooms on his first day, but his sharp green eyes took in every classified and restricted door. Behind each door was an angel, captive and abused, and he would get them out if it was the last thing he did. For now, it was time to pretend that he gave a shit where the vending machines were, and how much it cost per week to join the facility’s coffee mess.

“This will be your office,” Meg said, directing Dean to a small, out of the way room equipped with a desk, a chair, and a tiny bookshelf. A large screen, likely for distance conferencing, took up the entire far wall. “Your position is senior enough that you’ve escaped the cube farm. Congratulations,” she smirked, arching a well-shaped eyebrow. Dean laughed, as was to be expected of him. “I’ll get you set up with a computer so you can keep an eye on reports and goings on. You won’t have much in the way of a staff, but we don’t need more than one or two engineers on payroll at any given time.”

“So, I take it I will be keeping record of issues, and trying to work out any problems’ causes and document their solutions when I’m not fixing things?” Dean asked, setting his toolbox down on the chair.

“Yep. Your job will hopefully be to keep the place running, so that you don’t have to spend too much time going from place to place doing upkeep.” Meg grinned. “It’s a lot of pressure. Think you can handle it?”

Dean laughed. “My last job was at a power plant, and my supervisor hadn’t even finished college,” he lied easily. The bit about his job was true, but his supervisor had been a very educated man—a family friend who had taught his father in college, in fact. He knew that Bobby would corroborate the lie if asked, so there was little risk in pretending. He doubted the hiring director would bother to pull Bobby’s records, and even if she did, he would be long gone by that point. “I think having the freedom to keep things running without having to answer to someone like that will be downright liberating.”

“Then I’ll leave you to settle in. The guys from IT will swing by to set you up with a login in a few minutes.” With that, Meg left Dean alone in his office, no doubt on a schedule to go torture some poor angel somewhere in the building.

Security was tight in testing facilities, mostly to ensure that groups such as PAP did not get the information they would need to break in and bust out the "inventory", but they did not ban personal coms outside of the restricted rooms. Dean pulled out his text com and tapped out a quick message to his PAP co-member, Garth. **_Got the job. Drinks are on you tonight._** It was delicious, how completely innocent the message was. It spoke volumes to the organization, but if anyone went through his com, all they would see was a gloating message from Dean to one of his buddies.

His text com blinked, signaling a reply from Garth. **_Nice try. Drinks are on Mr. Fizzles._** Dean chortled, pocketing the device. Leave it to Garth to acknowledge receipt of the message with a reference to his beloved sock puppet.

A cheerful red-headed woman came into his office not a few minutes later, a slim screen clutched in her hand. “Hey newbie!” she greeted Dean with a positively infectious grin. “Charlie, from IT. Hear you’ve decided to sell your soul to the corporate world like the rest of us!”

“The corporate world put out a well-paid hiring notice. Who am I to resist the siren’s call?” Dean asked, winking at the woman.

Charlie laughed. “Anyways, it’s a bit of an older model, but this should get the job done,” she said, plunking the screen down on Dean’s desk and locking it into place. “Full touch screen, of course—we’re not that backwards. The 3-D’s a bit iffy, but I don’t think you’ll need it very much for engineering. Fifteen terrabytes of space, and any hackers would have to get past me.” She bared her teeth with confidence. “They won’t.”

It was a shame that such a lovely seeming woman as Charlie worked for an angel testing facility. Under any other circumstances, Dean would have to flirt shamelessly with her. Wasn’t that just the world—suckering even the nicest of people into unethical practices for the promise of a fat paycheck. Dean reminded himself that officially, he was supposed to be doing the exact same thing.

“Well, that’s that. Go ahead and create a username and password, and you should be good to log in from here on out!” Charlie dusted her hands off, clearly satisfied. “Well, I’d better get back to my desk. You’d think these crazy kids grew up in the twenty third century, the way they screw their computers up.”

“Awesome. See you around, Charlie,” Dean said, returning her smile. With his office empty again—hopefully for good—Dean settled in to scan the company's official website and glean what information he could about the facility.

The place was perfectly legal, abiding by government standards to the point where most people would deem it untouchable. Dean read through the company page, noting the pertinent information in his head to pass along to his superiors with PAP. Roman Genetic Corp. was one of the forerunners in genetic analysis, with the stated goal of cracking the details of the angel genome, to allow scientists to splice the healing ability of the angels into ordinary human DNA. As far as the law went, it was a perfectly legitimate enterprise. As far as ethics went, Dean considered it about as ethical as a puppy mill. Oh, he was going to enjoy bringing this place down.

Dean was nearing the end of the workday—not the most productive of days, but it was his first after all—when his computer dinged, signaling the arrival of a video communication. He pressed accept, and a 3-D face appeared, hovering slightly over the screen.

“New engineer, right?” the bearded man asked, his voice nasal and grating. “This is Alastair from testing. I seem to have short-circuited some of my equipment in my last test. Do you have time before you leave to come take a look?”

A jolt of excitement went through Dean’s chest. It looked like he might have the opportunity to get footage of an angel after all. “Certainly,” he replied, reaching down for his toolbox. “What room are you in?”

“Room 333,” Alastair replied, his mouth twisting in a cold grimace. “I might still be at work when you get here, but you can work through some noise and distraction, I presume.”

“Of course.” As sad as it was, footage of an angel being tested upon might actually work to stir up some public sympathy. “I’ll be right down.”

Dean hurried down the hall, his heart pounding with nervous excitement. He would have to keep his cool and pretend to be unbothered by the contents of the room, but that was all right. He had trained for this. Any concern he showed could easily be passed off as the surprise of a newbie civilian.

Room 333 was a restricted room, blocked off by a heavy steel door. Dean swiped his employee badge across the card reader and pressed his thumb against the scanner for identity verification. The door swung open, leading to a bright room, all white walls and white tile floor and harsh white light.

Dean’s breath hitched in his chest as he stepped into the room and caught sight of the angel in question. The being was beautiful, all pale skin and blue eyes and glossy black wings and hair. Tear tracks ran down his face, and he strained unconsciously at the bonds that held him in place on an operating table. Dean swallowed down rage as he realized that the skin over the angel’s stomach had been sliced open, his skin peeled back and pinned to the table, exposing his internal organs to the cold, clinical air.

“Ah, the engineer arrives!” Alastair hurried forth, ushering Dean over to a large gamma scanner off in the corner. “Mm, I’m afraid it might have burned out from overuse. Unfortunately, I don’t know the first thing about engineering, so I might be completely off the mark. My specialties lie in other places.”

Yes, other places. Like torture. Dean swallowed hard, fighting the urge to look at the angel again. He had to seem unperturbed by the procedures. “Gamma scanner, huh? What, are you trying to make Bruce Banner?” he asked, the reference to historical pop culture sliding easily from his lips.

Alastair laughed harshly. “Hardly. Simply seeing what the subject’s reactions are. The more we know, the more we can help, Mr…”

“Winchester,” Dean said, gripping the scientist’s hand firmly. Alastair’s skin was hot and dry, very different from the slimy cold that Dean had been expecting. “Dean Winchester.”

“Well, Deano, I’d appreciate it if you could get my machine up and running. Sorry to dash, but as you can see, I’m in the middle of a… procedure.”

“Yes, I can see that.” Dean followed Alastair’s gaze to the captive angel. The being stared at Dean with hopeless, deadened eyes. It was clear that he did not expect help from the man—he was most likely used to all sorts of people coming through, doing their jobs without casting him a second glance. It was hard to tear his gaze from the angel, but Dean forced himself to turn his attention back to the scanner. He had to seem believable, or the jig would be up before it had even begun.

The scanner was well and truly wrecked. There was no way that Alastair had simply burnt the machine out from over-use—not if the water damage and congealed acid in the wires were any indication. “You’ve really done a number on this one,” Dean said, glancing over at the man, shuddering as he realized that the scientist was elbow deep inside the conscious angel’s open belly.

“Will you be able to fix it?” Alastair asked, digging around and pulling out an organ at random. A piercing scream wrenched through the air, and the angel convulsed as much as his bonds would allow, even as his body spurred to work, producing a new kidney to replace the one Alastair had taken.

“Yeah, but it’s going to take time.” Dean deliberately did not look at the angel, afraid that his face would give away his feelings about the matter. “I got in late today, since I just got hired, but I can stay a few hours to try and get it up and running. No promises, though. This is a big project.”

“That’s fine. I’d like it back as soon as possible.” Alastair removed the pins from the angel’s flesh, laying flaps of skin back over his stomach. New tissue knitted together so fast, it was almost like watching the incisions filmed in reverse. “Getting out of the room after hours shouldn’t be a problem, so let me just put the subject back in its cage, and I’ll leave you to work in peace.”

“Works for me,” Dean said, barely concealing his triumphant grin. Not only had he gotten into a room with an angel, but he was to be left alone with him? This was moving much quicker than he had hoped. Due to the sensitive nature of the testing, the restricted rooms were not equipped with surveillance cameras, or even audio recorders, so if Dean interacted with the angel, no one would be any the wiser.

Dean fiddled with the scanner, cleaning congealed acid off of the salvageable wires while he waited for Alastair to leave. Finally, the heavy door swung open and Alastair walked out, leaving Dean alone in the room with the angel.

Dean finished scraping off the acid—he did need to get some work done on the machine—and then set down his tools. Softly, hoping to not startle the angle, he stepped towards the undersized cage. It looked cramped and uncomfortable, and the angel was forced to huddle in a ball, his wings wrapped around his body.

Dean glanced at the serial number on the cage. 35712. “Hey there,” he said softly, laying his hand carefully atop the cage’s barred exterior.

The angel jerked, his bright blue eyes flying open. Warily, he stared at Dean, all unblinking gaze and distrustful eyes. “I’m not going to hurt you,” Dean said, spreading his palms wide in a gesture of peace. The angel’s eyes tracked his movements. That was good. Reacting to non-physical stimulus was good. Most people did not think angels had that capability.

“My name’s Dean Winchester,” Dean said, watching the angel’s face for any sign that he understood. It was impossible to read that set, hardened expression. “I’m an engineer, not a researcher. Though I guess fixing these machines isn’t terribly helpful for you.”

The angel huffed. A hot, excited sweat broke out on the back of Dean’s neck. If that wasn’t a sign that the angel had understood him, then he was a goddamned ballerina. “I’m pretty sure you understand a lot more than most of us give you credit for. I’m right, aren’t I?”

The look the angel gave him was downright sarcastic. Dean wondered what the being’s voice would sound like, if he could speak. Dean was sure that he could, in theory, but signs of understanding were evidence enough. Who knew what sort of permanent damage would set in to a test subject’s vocal cords? “Hey… 35712,” he said awkwardly. It felt wrong to call the angel by his serial number, but he did not have anything else to refer to him by. “I know you’re not just an empty shell. My mom, when I was a kid, almost died. The angel that—that helped her was more human than any of the doctors were that day.”

35712 rolled his eyes, and Dean could not blame him. The angel had no reason to believe that Dean would actually help him, and therefore, his words were meaningless. “I do have to get back to fixing that machine,” Dean said regretfully, standing up. It would help the angel more in the long run if he kept his cover. “I’m really sorry about that, but it can’t be worse than vivisection, right?”

The angel scowled at him. Dean sighed, running a hand through his hair, and turned back to the scanner. It was a start. The footage he had gotten today alone would put PAP ahead as a serious contender in the social rights arena by an exponential factor. Before, they had been running on the beliefs and personal observations of their members; now, with a short, one-sided conversation, they had video and auditory proof that angels were capable of understanding speech. How could anyone refute it?

0o0o0o0o0

“It’s a start, but it’s not enough.”

Dean scowled at the head of PAP’s regional branch, a stern, intimidating woman named Ellen Harvelle. “What do you mean it’s not enough?” he demanded, crossing his arms indignantly. “He clearly reacted to what I was saying. Shit, Ellen, he managed to be fucking _sassy_ with me without saying a word! How can anyone deny that this is a sign of sentience?”

“Because people are morons,” Ellen responded dryly. “Look kiddo, you know I wish this was enough. But if we want to bring this system down, we need to have the entire set-up by the balls. You’re scratching the surface, and it will be enough to convince some people, but we’re up against medical lobbyists, scientific lobbyists, and the damn government itself. We don’t need evidence, we need hardcore, irrefutable _proof.”_

Dean hated it when Ellen was right. Legally, the only way to free the angels was to get a personhood bill through World Parliament. Dean’s evidence might be enough to convince the masses—and that was a big might—but it would never fly against legislators.

Dean sighed, resigned. “All right. I’ll keep trying,” he said morosely.

Ellen nodded. “See if you can get in with that same angel again. He seems pretty damn responsive.” She extended a hand for Dean to shake. “I don’t mean to pick on you, kid. Shit, in one day you’ve gotten more from this place than we have in a year. Our computer mole is gonna be mad as hell that you beat her out,” she said with a grin. “You’ve got three months before we pull you. Make them count.”

And make them count he would. Dean fully intended to get to work before Alastair tomorrow, to have some time with the angel before his tormentor came in. If he was lucky, he could get even farther, maybe come up with some sort of sign language to use with him. Ellen was right. It was a start, and that would have to be enough.

 

 


	3. Gabriel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While keeping watch, Samael comes across Lucifer's long lost brother, who has escaped from slavery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm justifying the speedy updates by the idea that it would be nice to get Sam's and Cas's chapters up quickly after Dean's. That said, eventually I'm going to run out of pre-written chapters so don't get too spoiled, dears!
> 
> Warnings for discussion of slavery and torture.

A noise in the bushes drew Samael’s attention down from his treetop post. He frowned, peering into the gloom; a flash of brown caught his eye and vanished. It was probably a deer, but on the other hand, it could be a cougar. It was his job to check up on these things, so with practiced stealth, Samael slithered down from the tree, tracking the creature with an alert ear.

A muffled curse gave Samael pause. “Hello?” he called, pushing aside the foliage and squinting into the dark.

A pale, skinny angel lay sprawled on his side where he had fallen, large tawny wings trembling with exhaustion. He glared at Samael, golden eyes flashing as he took in the man’s bare, wingless shoulders. _“If you want to take me back, you’re going to have to kill me to do it.”_ Samael frowned, the angel’s language at once foreign and familiar. _“I won’t go back there! I won’t be a slave anymore!”_

“I don’t understand you,” Samael said in Enochian, frowning at the man.

Confusion was evident on the angel’s face, and he stared at Samael as though he had never seen anything quite like him. “You speak Enochian?” he asked, clearly bewildered. “But… How? None of the scientists ever bothered to learn our tongue.”

Samael cocked his head, unsure of what the man meant. “Of course I speak Enochian,” he insisted. “I was raised speaking it.”

“But… But you’re human,” the angel protested, sitting up with a wince. “How can you have been raised speaking the language of the angels?”

“I was brought up by angels,” Samael answered. He lunged forward to catch the man as he rose shakily and nearly fell. Sticky blood oozed from under the angel's wing-joints, coating Samael's hands. “You're hurt. I can take you to the healer—”

“I’ll live,” the angel replied between gritted teeth. “I don’t have time to get to the healer. I’m looking for my brother, Lucifer.”

The air suddenly seemed a thousand times heavier. “You’re Gabriel,” Samael said, staring at Lucifer’s oft-spoken of younger sibling. Gabriel had been gone for decades, stolen away and enslaved by cruel humanity.

For the first time, something like hope flared in Gabriel’s eyes. “You know my name? You know Lucifer?” he asked, staring at Samael with renewed determination. “He’s alive? The humans never caught up with him?”

Samael nodded. Gabriel sagged, boneless, against Sam, his trembling wings fluttering against the man’s chest. “Thank god,” he whispered. “They threatened to kill him when he ran.”

Lucifer had spoken in pieces about his experience at the hands of humanity, but he had shielded Samael from the whole story. Samael determined that he would have to ask Lucifer for the unpleasant details as soon as they had Gabriel settled—he needed to know exactly what his birth people were doing. “Let me call my replacement to take my watch, and I will get you back to the tribe,” he promised, lifting a wooden whistle from inside his belt pouch. He placed it to his lips and blew four high, trilling notes.

A few minutes passed in silence before the flutter of wings announced Hester’s arrival. “Is everything all right, Samael?” she called, landing just outside the trees and moving towards him on foot.

“It’s Gabriel,” Samael shouted, his voice tight.

“Gabriel?” Hester’s footsteps picked up to a run; she sprinted towards the two of them. Even the youngest of their tribe knew of Lucifer’s brother Gabriel—they all knew the names of all the angels they had lost to humanity. Each winter, they mourned their losses as fresh deaths, for none of them could know what had happened to any given angel. Hester was old enough that she had probably known Gabriel in person, not just as one of the taken.

Hester stopped short a few feet from Sam, her eyes wide with disbelief as she stared at the exhausted man in his arms. “He lives,” she whispered, pressing her fist to her mouth, kissing it in a gesture of thanks to their creator. She shook herself as though to dispel the shock. “I have the rest of your shift. Take him to the healers, and bring Lucifer. He'll want to see his brother.”

Samael nodded. “How’s your grip?” he asked Gabriel, swallowing hard as piercing gold eyes flashed at the question.

“Passable,” Gabriel replied. Samael gave him a small smile and shifted the man so that he rested on his back. Gabriel wrapped his legs about Samael’s waist and his arms around his neck, clinging tightly. Samael took off on foot, hastening through the trees until he reached the clear part of the mountain. The side was steep, and required both hands for him to climb it.

“If I were in better condition, I’d fly you up,” Gabriel said apologetically in Samael’s ear.

“Don’t worry about it,” Samael grunted. The familiar climb was difficult with another person on his back. “I know you said you want to see Lucifer first, but you need a healer. You’re not in any shape to fly.”

Gabriel was quiet, and Samael hoped that this meant the man would not argue the point with him. Several minutes passed before Samael reached the ledge that hid the cavernous public caves of the tribe. Gabriel slid from his shoulders, and Sam picked him up in his arms again, carrying him to Inias’s public domain.

Inias had gone home for the day, it seemed, because his apprentice, Anael, was the only angel in the set. “Anael, I need help!” Samael called, startling the woman.

“What is it, Sa—who is this?” Anael asked, her fiery red and brown wings flaring in surprise as she caught sight of Gabriel.

Anael was hardly fifty-five springs. Of course she would not remember Lucifer’s brother—he had been taken nearly fifty summers ago. “Gabriel,” Sam grunted, laying him down on a hide pallet. “Take care of him. I’m going to get Lucifer.”

Anael’s eyes widened, but she did not say anything. She nodded, kneeling beside Gabriel, allowing her healer’s demeanor to slip on. “Tell me what’s wrong, and I’ll help,” she said, pressing her hand to Gabriel’s forehead.

Sam sprinted through the tunnels, searching out the warrior’s training room. Lucifer had not retired from combat, even though he had reached the levels of experience where he could do so, and he was in charge of teaching young, promising angels the basics of handling a blade in battle. He skidded to a halt at the entrance, panting, gazing up at Uriel Soulstealer, second only to Lucifer and one of only five angels in their tribe to have earned the name. “I need to see Lucifer,” he panted, pressing on the growing stitch in his side.

“Lucifer is busy,” Uriel rumbled, raising an eyebrow at Sam. “The selection for the name Fastblade is quickly approaching. He’s overseeing a training session right now. Not even you have leave to interrupt him, Samael.”

“Please,” Samael gasped, nearly doubling over as his side throbbed sharply. “It’s his brother. It’s Gabriel. He has escaped enslavement and returned to us.”

Uriel’s face was unreadable. “You’re wrong,” he said finally, folding his arms across his chest.

“Do you think I’m that moronic?” Samael demanded, his patience growing thin. “Go to Inias’s public set. Gabriel is there with Anael. Do you really think I would leave my watch for something trifling? Do you think Hester would have let me?”

Uriel sighed. “I do not distrust you, Samael, but we have never had reason to hope,” he said finally. “None of those taken from us have ever returned, save for your guardian. It would devastate Lucifer to hear that his brother has escaped, only to discover some imposter in his place.”

“But you knew Gabriel, and Hester recognized him,” Samael replied quickly. “He was short and pale, with tawny wings and golden eyes. His face was soft, yet strangely angular. This man is the right age to be him. If it’s an imposter, it’s one wearing his characteristics. I know I have never met him, but Lucifer has described him many times.”

A spark of hope flashed in Uriel’s eyes. “You have never deceived me before,” he said, his low voice trembling slightly. “Very well. You may enter. Tell the trainees to continue their exercises unsupervised. Hopefully they will be mature enough to actually listen.” He snorted, clearly not holding his breath on that matter.

Samael clasped his hands together in a sign of respect and sprinted past Uriel, his bare feet slapping against cool stone. He skidded around a turn and pulled aside the hanging cloth that separated the training room from the main hall.

Thirty sets of eyes turned to look at Samael as he stumbled, panting into the room. “Samael?” Lucifer asked, striding to the front of the room, concern flashing in his eyes. “I thought you were on watch.”

“I was,” Samael said, inhaling quick, shallow breaths. “Uriel said to have the recruits train on their own. You need—Lucifer, it’s Gabriel.”

Lucifer froze, an ice cold statue before Samael. “What about Gabriel?” he asked finally, his adam’s apple bobbing as he squared his shoulders, his jaw clenched hard.

“He—I was on watch, and a noise got my attention. It’s Gabriel, Lucifer. He got away from the slavers.”

“Where?” Lucifer threw his blade to the side, seizing Samael’s arm and pulling him out of the room.

“With Anael.” Samael stumbled after his guardian, tripping over his feet in an effort to keep up with the man.

Lucifer hauled Samael after him, dragging him from the training center into the main cavern. He made a beeline for Inias’s set, his grip unrelentingly tight on Samael’s arm. Samael chanced a glance up at his guardian’s face, and was shocked to see tears streaming down over his cheeks. In nineteen years, he had never seen Lucifer cry.

Lucifer threw aside the hanging cloth and strode into Inias’s set, Samael close on his heels. The angel stopped short, staring at the figure on the pallet with a strange expression, a mix of regret and amazement, joy and disbelief.

Gabriel looked up at his brother from behind short, dark strands of hair. “Hiya, Luci,” he said softly, a small smile crossing his face. “Miss me?”

Lucifer dropped to his knees, pulling his brother into a tight embrace. “All these years—I was sure I would never see you again,” he whispered, his scarred hands fisting in Gabriel’s strange, rough-looking shirt. “I thought you would be dead, or worse. I didn’t even let myself hope that you would come home.”

“Yeah, well, neither did I.” Despite his casual tone, Gabriel’s chin trembled. He swept his hands over Lucifer’s broad, gold and white wings, as though attempting to reassure himself that his brother would not vanish on him. “But hey, a super risky opportunity presented itself. You know me—can’t say no to a bad idea.”

Samael ducked out of Inias’s set and made his way back to his and Lucifer’s shared home. It was only respectful to give his guardian time alone with his brother. Thoughts swirled in his head, hazy and unfocused, slowly but surely coming together in pieces to form a plan.

He may have been raised an angel, but biologically, he was human. Surely the humans would not enslave one of their own kind. He had trained as a sentry, but if he petitioned the Council of Three, they might grant him permission to go among the humans as an envoy and beg for the release of the angels. Lucifer would probably fight him, but Raphael and Michael would surely see his side. They had to. If Gabriel was still alive after all this time, who was to say there weren’t countless others out there, chained in captivity and begging the creator to let them come home?

0o0o0o0

“Absolutely not.” Lucifer glared regally at Samael from across the low wooden table, folding his arms across his chest. “You don’t remember humanity, Samael. They are cruel, they are vicious, and they’re as likely to mutilate you and throw you in their training camps as they are to listen to you. In fact, that's more likely!”

“I wasn’t asking permission,” Samael said calmly, folding his hands in his lap. “They won’t touch me. I’m human as well.”

“No you are not!” Lucifer barked, scowling at his ward. “All right, you might not have wings, and you might age too quickly without your draught, but you are _not_ a human. You’re not going. I forbid you to go!”

“On what grounds?” Samael asked, cocking his head. Beside him, Gabriel was listening intently, mopping up the remains of his porridge with a thick crust of bread.

“On the grounds that you are twenty-four springs and I am responsible for your well-being!”

Samael shrugged. “That’s true, but I aged quickly for a long time. If you factor that in, I am the equivalent of fifty-four springs. More than old enough to make my own choices.”

“That—” Lucifer inhaled sharply, gripping the edge of the table in a tight fist. “Tell him, Gabriel,” he demanded, not looking at his brother. _“Please._ Tell him what a fool he is for even thinking about this.”

“Hey, don’t get me involved!” Gabriel protested. He sighed, setting down his bowl. “Luci, you’re my brother, and I love you, but Samael has a point here. Humans are evil, sadistic bastards, but they won’t want Samael for the things they use angels for. Hasn’t got the right juice for it. I’m guessing you heal slowly, and can’t heal others?” he directed at Samael.

“Correct,” Samael answered, frowning. He wasn’t sure exactly what Gabriel was getting at.

Gabriel nodded. “Lucifer, humans don’t keep us as slaves for labor, they keep us around as medical equipment,” he said, wincing at his own words. “You got away before you had to find that out. If Samael can’t take on the ouchies and sniffles of other people, he’s useless to them as an angel. Moreover, they can only get away with using us for that because they break us of our will to speak and interact, so that most of them think we’re just mindless animals. Send a walking, talking Samael into their midst and most of them would pitch a fit at the idea of enslaving him.”

“You’re not helping,” Lucifer growled, glowering at his brother.

“Yeah, I know.” Gabriel shrugged, picking up his bowl. “Sorry, but it’s the truth. I’m not going to lie to the kid just to take your side.”

Lucifer shifted angrily on his knees. “Fine. So, they won’t enslave you. They won’t understand you either,” he snapped. “It might have escaped your notice, but they don’t speak Enochian. They’ll hear you, but all they’ll hear is gibberish that they cannot hope to understand.”

“But you can teach me their tongue,” Samael argued. “Both of you speak it. And I spoke it once, I think, so I wouldn’t even be learning it from scratch.”

“They’ll think you’re crazy,” Lucifer shot back. “They will lock you away with their mad ones! Even your appearance—here, take a look at Gabriel. They don’t dress like us, they keep their hair short, and they cover themselves with metal and trinkets that you could never hope to replicate.”

Samael glanced at Lucifer’s brother, who shrugged. “And the point there goes to Luci,” he said, settling cross-legged on his mat, reaching up to place his bowl back on the table. “You don’t know their culture, and I didn’t exactly learn their everyday ways, so I’m no help there.”

Samael frowned, cataloguing Gabriel’s appearance. His long shirt covered his entire torso like winter clothing, save for the neat holes in the back out of which poked his wings. His strange skirt was split into two separate parts, each covering a single leg and meeting in the middle. It looked terribly constrictive. Unconsciously, Samael touched his knee-length hair, bound at the nape of his neck and segmented into a long, decorated rope. Gabriel’s hair cut off midway down his neck, and hung loose, free of ties.

“So I cut my hair and have clothing made modeled off of his,” Samael determined. He would miss the weight of his braid, but if it would help him fit in with the humans, he would do it without a second thought.

“Luci, why are we even talking about this?” Gabriel asked, turning to his brother. “Correct me if things have changed, but isn’t this a matter for the Council of Three?”

“I’m _on_ the Council of Three,” Lucifer replied through gritted teeth.

“Fine, the council of two plus you.” Gabriel sighed. “Brother, I was far from alone down there. I have seen countless angels tortured and mutilated for no better reason than that their bodies can take it. I have met children who have never stretched their wings in flight, never been given a name past a serial number. I have seen abuses too terrible to name inflicted upon my fellows in the breaking camps, and have heard tales from women forced to breed, only to have their children ripped from their breasts upon weaning, to grow up in pain and captivity. If Samael can help…” he trailed off, caught up in the ghosts of his past.

Samael looked across the table at Lucifer. “Please,” he begged. “Please stand with me when I go to the council. Please let me help.”

Lucifer sighed, burying his face wearily in his hands. “Gabriel was not yet fifty springs when he was taken,” he said slowly. “I had passed seventy two. I was training for the title Soulstealer, and Gabriel had just been granted the title Fastblade. I asked my superiors to let me look for him, and they granted permission, so I did.”

Samael shifted quietly. Lucifer had told him this part, but he had the feeling that his guardian was going to go into greater detail about his experience with humanity than he ever had before.

“I tracked him down the mountain and came upon a group of human slavers. Gabriel was not the only one who was taken, and I made the mistake of trying to free everyone I came across. I was shot down by some sort of projectile that sent me into unconsciousness. When I awoke, I was chained with the others, my hair shorn and my blade taken from me.” Lucifer paused, meeting Samael’s gaze. “I am a warrior now, and I was a warrior then. I attacked my captors. They sank metal balls into my flesh and jolted me with captive lightning, but it did not deter me. I had my captors on the ground and was in the process of breaking my chains when a man with yellow eyes came for me.

“The yellow eyed man had another one of humanity’s cruel torture devices. This one did not shoot metal balls. It engulfed me with flames. I healed, but—” Lucifer sighed. “Again and again he burned me, until my flesh simply refused to regenerate. They clipped my wings, pulled out my feathers, and sealed the wounds off with some sort of sticky substance. My body tried to heal, my feathers tried to regrow, but they could not break the skin. It was mortal agony, Samael.”

The air seemed to take on a distinctive chill. Suddenly, Samael was glad that Lucifer had spared him the details of his captivity until now. He did not know if he would have been able to bear the knowledge.

“We were taken to a camp that reeked of suffering and death. I saw my brothers beaten for simply speaking, even amongst themselves. We were all confined, and I could not find Gabriel. Every time I saw an angel executed for disobedience, or flayed alive for whispering to another, I wondered if Gabriel was among the dead, or the broken. For three summers, I suffered in that camp. Finally, I found an opening, and I took it.

“I found Gabriel, but before I could free him, the man with yellow eyes came through, making his rounds. Gabriel begged me to go, and I left, promising to return for him. There were too many humans to fight, so I fled to rally the tribe. I thought that we would come back, and they would still be there. I did not think that I was running in cowardice, but I may as well have. When I returned with our warriors, the camp was empty, and all our fellows were gone.”

Samael swallowed hard. Lucifer fixed him with a steady gaze. “I don't tell you this lightly, Samael,” he said softly. “I just need you to know what you are going up against. Your blade will do you little good against human projectile weapons. If enough of them come at you in cruelty, they will overpower you. You do not heal like the rest of us, so you run the risk of not only captivity, but death.”

Samael looked down. His guardian’s words were heavy with import, and yet… “I understand, Lucifer, and I will heed your warning,” he said softly. “But if that is what the humans are doing to our brethren, and I can stop it, how can I sit here in safety, fighting mountain lions and wolves when there are true monsters threatening us?”

Lucifer smiled sadly. “You’re a good man, Samael,” he said, and Samael felt warm at the praise. “A fool, but good. Nothing I say will change your mind, will it?”

Samael shook his head, determined. Lucifer sighed. “You should have been a Fastblade, rather than a Watchkeeper, with that heart,” he said. “I will support your case before the Council of Three, but you have to promise me that you will be careful. If the humans show even the slightest sign of attacking you, you get out and come home. There is no shame in a Watchkeeper fleeing a fight to inform the people—it’s the duty that you swore to when you took your name.”

“I promise,” Samael said, his heart pounding hard in his chest.

Lucifer nodded. “We should all rest, then,” he said. “Bring your plan before the Council at the next Judgment Day. Gabriel, tomorrow I will take you to Metatron to have your story recorded, and to Michael, so that he can help us decide what to do next.”

Gabriel nodded, his lips quirking. “Never thought I’d be glad to see that _jackass_ Metatron again,” he said wryly.

 _“Jackass?”_ Samael asked, confused.

“Human word. I’ll teach you more of them later so you can actually communicate with the barbarians,” Gabriel promised. He rose, stretching to his full, still diminutive height. “Where can I sleep, Luci?”

Samael rose and swept the bowls from the table, carrying them over to the washtub in the corner and leaving them to soak. It had been a long, strange day, and he had watch tomorrow morning. He excused himself to his pallet, unwinding his long, flowing hair as he walked. He did not relish the idea of meeting with his biological people, but Gabriel’s return had lit a fire in him. Unable to sleep, he tossed and turned throughout the night, nervous anticipation flooding through his veins, and when the sun rose, he slipped out of the dwelling, alight with new purpose.

 

 


	4. The Lab Rat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a day like any other in Castiel's miserable, downtrodden life, until the new engineer stops by. Against his better instincts, Castiel grows to trust the man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cas's first chapter. As stated previously, chapters will alternate POVs. Enjoy!
> 
> Warning: torture, vivisection.

His insides were on fire, the freshly grown kidney throbbing steadily against his ribs. Castiel sat, hunched into his cage, his wings curled protectively around his body. The worst Alastair had ever done to his wings was cut patterns around his feathers, and that, Castiel was sure, was a completely useless exercise. Humans did not have wings, so why did the man care how they healed? It was simply more proof that the testing was an excuse for sadism, not progress.

Several times, he had thought he saw the engineer look at him with pity in his eyes, but a damn lot of good that did him. It was probably just the product of his desperate imagination, and what did it matter if the engineer pitied him anyways? He wouldn’t help him. No human would go out of their way to help a mere angel.

“Hey there.” Castiel jerked, startled from his thoughts. His tender insides protested the movement as he twisted his head to stare at the engineer, bewildered. Why was this man talking to him? Didn’t he “know” that Castiel didn’t have the capacity to understand him? Castiel bit back at the hysterical laughter that threatened to burst from his throat. He would not risk the sort of punishment inflicted upon angels who spoke. He couldn’t take it.

“I’m not going to hurt you.” The man spread his hands in a placating gesture. Castiel watched him, biting back the retorts he longed to throw at the man. He was here to fix Alastair’s testing equipment—that made him as bad as the scientist, in Castiel’s eyes. “My name is Dean Winchester.” Oh, how lovely—a name to put with the face. A fat lot of good it would do Castiel, silenced and imprisoned as he was. “I’m an engineer, not a researcher. Though I guess fixing these machines isn’t terribly helpful for you.”

Oh good, he was cognizant of that much at least. Castiel snorted, unimpressed. If it was all the same to this interloper, he would like to get some sleep, to try and salvage some threads of energy before Alastair returned to rip him open again. Dean’s eyes flashed with a strange sort of excitement; he gazed at Castiel hungrily, an unsettling look that couldn’t possibly mean anything good. Suddenly, Castiel was glad for the cage. He had heard horror stories of the unspeakable things that went down when angels found themselves at the mercy of strange, unsupervised humans.

“I’m pretty sure you understand a lot more than most of us give you credit for,” Dean continued. What, did he want an award? “I’m right, aren’t I?”

Castiel rolled his eyes, casting a disbelieving look at the man before him. Did he seriously think Castiel was going to answer? Surely he knew that words were beaten out of every angel before the training facilities even considered sending them off to experience their own personal hells.

“Hey… 35712.” Castiel winced, his serial number an omnipresent reminder of his pathetic condition. “I know you’re not just an empty shell. My mom, when I was a kid, almost died. The angel that—that helped her was more human than any of the doctors were that day.”

This was ridiculous. What did he want—gratitude? For Castiel to break down, sobbing, and thank him for deigning to acknowledge his personhood? Castiel did not want anything from a being willing to contribute to his enslavement, and frankly, being compared to a human was downright insulting. Creator, would this man not just leave him alone?

“I do have to get back to fixing that machine.” Dean rose, and this time Castiel could not put the pity in the man’s face down to a desperate, pain-induced hallucination. “I’m really sorry about that, but it can’t be worse than vivisection, right?”

Oh, how fantastic. What, did he think he was doing Castiel a favor? Clearly, he had never been dosed with excessive amounts of gamma radiation. Castiel scowled, annoyed. At least it seemed that Dean was going to leave him alone to nurse his hurts.

Dean left a few minutes later, flicking off the lights and leaving Castiel alone in the pitch black room. Castiel sighed, shivering as cold air ghosted over his skin. He pulled his wings in close, allowing soft feathers to caress his skin and trap in body heat. Another day of agony, another night of restless sleep. How many more days of the same would he be forced to endure before death came to claim him? He hoped that Alastair overstepped his cells’ capacity to heal soon.

Castiel awoke the next morning when the light flicked on. He stirred, blearily opening his eyes, expecting to see Alastair’s cruel face staring down into the cage, hungry with a need for Castiel’s screams. Instead, Dean stood outside the cage, an unwrapped chocolate bar in his hand.

“Hey,” Dean said, offering Castiel a small smile. “Didn’t finish with that machine last night.” He glanced nervously over his shoulder, and then his fingers slipped through the bars, offering Castiel the chocolate he held. “I know it’s really not any sort of compensation, but I thought you might like to try this.”

Castiel hesitated, looking warily from the candy to Dean, and then back to the candy. He had never had chocolate. According to Gabriel, the angels had a similar treat, made by the tribes thousands of miles to the south and traded for with northern furs and fruits, but Castiel had never had the opportunity to sample anything of the sort. Carefully, watching for any sign of deception, Castiel plucked the bar from Dean’s hands, raising it to his nose and sniffing it, searching for any traces of drugs.

It seemed safe. Castiel crammed the treat into his mouth before Dean could change his mind. A startled moan of pleasure slipped from his lips as a sweet, consuming taste crashed over his taste buds, filling his mouth with a rich, delicious aftertaste. It was better than the times when Castiel had been given fruit at the hospital, or when Gabriel had pick-pocketed gum from one of the nurses. Castiel closed his eyes, savoring the sensation, his tongue flicking out to lick any traces of the sugary substance from his lips.

When he opened his eyes, Dean was crouching beside him, offering a small smile. “I take it that was a hit,” he said, his words remarkably open and friendly, no undercurrent of menace to mar their meaning.

Castiel hesitated. He did not know Dean—one small kindness was not enough to ensure that he would not be beaten for breaking the rules. Still, the humans had only ever punished him for speaking verbally; could a sign of acknowledgement really be so bad? He steeled himself and gave Dean a small nod, waiting for the displeased tightening of the man’s jaw, for hard, cruel hands to reach into the cage and seize him with a bruising grip.

Dean startled him by grinning. “Awesome,” he said, bracing his hands on his thighs. “Listen, um… 35712. You got a name, or anything?”

Now that was a line that Castiel knew better than to cross. He ducked his head, bringing his wings up to shield his face. He would not speak. He knew better than to speak. Alastair would flay him alive, would strip the skin off of his bones and leave it rotting in the cage with him.

Dean sighed, seeming almost regretful. “Well, it was a thought,” he said aloud. He shifted, and Castiel presumed that he was standing up. “I’ve got to get back to work, but just so you know, you can talk to me any time, all right? I’m not going to bite.”

No, he wouldn’t bite. Biting would be too simple a punishment for such a grievous crime as vocalizing his thoughts. Castiel was not sure that Dean himself would mete out such a punishment, but someone else would find out. Alastair, or one of the other research directors. Castiel shivered, folding into a ball. Dean would have to find someone else to engage in idle conversation.

Dean was still working on the machine when the door clicked open again. This time, Castiel knew it was Alastair. He swallowed hard, a cold, familiar ball of dread sitting hard in his stomach. He would not break down. He would not cry. Crying would disturb Dean, and then maybe Dean would tell Alastair about the chocolate, or about how Castiel had responded to his words.

“Deano. Still working on the gamma scanner?” Alastair asked, setting his briefcase down with a loud think. A shiver rolled down Castiel’s spine, and he squeezed his eyes shut, tears threatening to leak out from behind closed lids.

“Yep. The water damage is a bit more extensive than I expected. Not completely unsalvageable though.”

“Good!” Alastair sounded pleased. “I would hate to lose such a valuable piece of equipment. It’s very useful in my tests, you know.”

“I’d imagine.” Dean’s tone seemed to have dropped several degrees. “You should be more careful in the future. Don’t work with water or acid around it, all right?”

“Hm, luckily, I finished those particular tests a few days ago, so that shouldn’t be a problem.” The door to Castiel’s cage clicked open, and he shrank back as Alastair’s hot, hard hands closed around his wrists. The scientist manhandled him out into the open, directing Castiel towards the operating table. “It’s all about organ regrowth these days. Personally, I’d love to slow its healing processes down, really get a handle on the regeneration cycle, but I’m afraid that’s Ruby’s area of expertise, not mine.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Dean replied stiffly. “I’m just here to fix the machines.”

Alastair smirked, pushing Castiel’s unresisting body onto the operating table and strapping him in place. “You’re an educated boy, Deano. You’d probably pick up the basics pretty quickly.” Alastair’s stained teeth glinted as he regarded Castiel, even as he addressed Dean. “You could always assist me, if you get the chance. I can’t imagine they’ve got you running too ragged yet.”

“Sorry, but that’s not a part of my contract.” Was it Castiel’s imagination, or did Dean sound as though he would like nothing more than to strangle the man? “I’m sure I’d just get in the way of your tests.”

“Mm. Pity.” Alastair sighed, picking up a scalpel with long, bony fingers. “Ah, well. Duty calls!” he said, humming to himself as he sliced Castiel open from sternum to navel.

0o0o0o0o0

It was several weeks before Castiel saw Dean again. This time, it was a computer error that brought the man into the room, very late in the day. Several technicians from IT had dropped by first to take a look at the machine, and each had concluded that it was an electrical error, rather than anything to do with the computer itself. Alastair had raged, brutalizing Castiel with more force than necessary in his fury, but a small part of Castiel was glad that it had happened. Dean was the only human who had ever acknowledged him as more than a mere test subject.

“Sorry about the wait,” Dean apologized, quirking his lips at Alastair. He deliberately avoided looking at Castiel, and for some reason, that hurt. “Wires have been crossed all through the building. It’s probably going to take a couple of days to sort everything out.”

“How typical,” Alastair grumbled, cradling Castiel’s right lung in his hand, a dropper of hydrofluoric acid clenched between skinny fingers. “Well, at least you got here before the end of the day.”

“Yeah, that’s a break. Not all the testing rooms are going to be so lucky.” Dean crouched by Alastair’s computer, graceful hands scurrying across the screen. “Yeah, this is definitely not an IT issue. The entire facility’s gone off the grid. You’re lucky it’s contained to the computers, and not everything else.”

“How long will it take to fix?” Alastair demanded, squeezing the dropper. Castiel stared in distant shock as his lung caved and melted under the acid, the numbing effects of the substance preventing the pain from registering in his brain.

“Probably a while.” Dean sighed, shaking his head. “I’d recommend heading out early today, if at all possible. There’s probably going to be some issues with the lights while I’m fiddling with getting the computers back online.”

Alastair sighed, clearly annoyed. “Well, I’ll pack up and leave you to it,” he said, smoothing Castiel’s flesh back in place. Sharp, annoying pinpricks spread through Castiel’s body as his abused skin melded back together. “You think it will be ready to go in the morning?”

“I don’t plan to leave until I’ve got it fixed,” Dean replied, shrugging. “Your room’s my last assignment for the day. I can afford to take my time.”

Alastair released the straps holding Castiel in place and hauled him off the table. “Mm, very well, my boy. I expect a working computer when I get back in the morning.” He stuffed Castiel in the cage, locking the door with a heavy click.

“Unless something goes horribly wrong, you’ll have it,” Dean promised, his mouth twisting. Alastair pursed his lips, but he seemed to have little else to say. He gathered up his tools and stomped out of the room, the door slamming behind him.

Dean sagged back as soon as the door had closed. “Damn, I hate that guy,” he muttered, turning back to the computer. Castiel cocked his head uncertainly. He wasn’t sure what cause Dean had to hate Alastair. In fact, the researcher seemed to like Dean quite a bit, and Alastair never liked anyone.

Several minutes passed in silence before Dean flipped a switch, causing half the lights in the room to go out. “Perfect,” Dean muttered, grinning. He cast a glance over at Castiel, who watched him back, unblinking. “I am a goddamn genius.”

Disabling the lighting hardly seemed like a genius move for an electrician. Castiel shifted restlessly, his eyes tracking Dean’s every movement. A few more minutes passed, and then the computer whirred to life, and the lights flickered back on. “Almost as good as pie,” Dean crowed, clapping his hands together with satisfaction. He rose, walking over to Castiel’s cage and settling beside him.

“You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to,” Dean said after a moment’s pause. “I get it. You don’t trust me. Hell, if I were in your situation, I wouldn’t trust me either. I just need you to know that I’m actually trying to help you, not them.”

Bemused, Castiel tilted his head. Dean smiled slightly. “Ever hear of PAP?” he asked softly. Castiel shook his head before he could stop himself. “It’s an angel rights group,” Dean informed him. “The world doesn’t take us so seriously. They think we’re a bunch of crazy hippies, getting high and dancing around in fits of religious fervor at the word angel, or something.”

Angel rights group? Impossible. Humans didn’t want angels to have rights, they wanted to enslave them and exploit them for their own benefit. Castiel drummed his fingers absently on the floor of his cage. He shouldn’t be listening to Dean. He should turn away and ignore the man, show him exactly what he thought of lies and false hope.

Dean continued, oblivious to Castiel’s skepticism. “I guess some people probably do join because they hear the word angel and think of the bible, or whatever the hell kooky religion they follow. I don’t know anyone like that. I joined because of the angel who healed my mother. Don’t get me wrong—I’m glad she’s alive. I’m not glad that she lived because someone else took on her injuries.”

Slowly, Castiel nodded. He was not sure if he believed Dean, and a part of his brain screamed that this whole one-sided conversation was a trap, but the man seemed so sincere, and Castiel wanted to be fooled.

“The other people I know have their own reasons,” the man continued. “Our region leader, Ellen, joined because her grandfather actually worked in a hospital. She said that he quit when his hospital started experimenting with a test program, and he couldn’t handle the screaming. Too human, not at all like mindless vegetables. She met her husband at a PAP meeting.” Dean sighed. “Bill was hardcore. Even when he was dying, he refused to let the hospital bring in an angel to heal him. Ellen’s taken a lot of flak for supporting his decision, but she says she’d do it again in a heartbeat. We’ve got others, too. Ash swears that when he was having surgery as a kid, the angel they brought in talked to him. Doctors said he was high on pain meds and hallucinating, but he’s not buying any of it. Pamela’s the closest I know to a kook, and she says that a particular angel appeared to her every night in her dreams, and when she went to the hospital because her appendix was about to rupture, the angel from her dreams was sent in to heal her. She said he was just a kid, and can’t have been there long, because he fought the doctors. Official line says you guys don’t do that.”

Castiel shuddered. An angel who fought the doctors would be lucky to meet a merciful death. He did not want to think about the fate of the angel in question.

“You know, 35712, I think a lot more people have had that sort of thing happen than want to admit it. I think—”

“Castiel.” The word was out of his mouth before he could stop it. He clapped his hands over his lips, his heart pounding wildly. He had messed up. He had drastically overstepped his bounds, and he would be punished for it. A frightened whimper rose, unbidden, in his throat; he gasped for breath, scooting as far back in his cage as he could manage.

Dean stared at him as though seeing him for the first time. “What was that?” he asked, his breathless voice barely more than a low whisper.

What could they do, flay him twice? Actually, Castiel would not put it past Alastair, but the dam had been broken. Words tumbled out of his mouth in a rush, the need to get them out, to speak for the only human who had ever actually _seen_ him screaming through his veins. “M-m-my name isn’t 3571…12,” he gasped, clenching his fists tightly, short, ragged nails digging into his palms. “D-don’t call me th-that. I, I, I _hate_ it. My n-name is C-Castiel.” He stuttered, his throat creaking, belying his lack of practice in speaking aloud.

Dean swallowed hard, his eyes flashing with hungry excitement. “All right, Castiel. So you do speak. I thought you could.”

“A-are you dense?” Castiel asked, laughing hysterically. “Of c-course I speak. We all do, well not all, w-w-we all do at the farms, until they b-beat it out of us at t-t-the training camps.”

“Training camps?” Dean sounded confused. He hugged his knees to his chest and rested his forehead against the bars of Castiel’s cage. “What training camps?”

“The ones they send us when we leave the f-farms.” Speech was coming a bit more naturally, and Castiel’s racing heart was steadily coming down to normal. Dean did not seem like he was going to punish him. “Where we learn to forget our names, where they try to make us forget our speech, where they break us of a-any bad behavior. Teach us to be silent and compliant and submissive, so we don’t disturb humans in the hospitals.”

Dean swallowed hard. “I had no idea,” he said softly. “We all know about the breeding farms. That’s public knowledge. Breed the angels, then send them to hospitals when their healing abilities manifest.”

Castiel shook his head desperately. “No,” he said through gritted teeth. “Force our mothers to breed until they have no more eggs. Let us grow up for a few years with names and letting us speak, and they don’t beat us there. Then when we’re still kids, send us off to training camps where they punish us if we talk, punish us if we balk, punish us if we disobey, kill us if we try to escape. Then it’s the hospitals.” A hot tear slid down Castiel’s cheek; angrily, he wiped it away. “And they don’t kill us n-nicely. Because trying to kill yourself is considered trying to escape. They need a way to deter suicide, so if you’re caught trying it, they kill you as slowly as p-possible. Make an example.”

Dean swallowed hard. “I’ve never heard of this.”

“I’m not lying,” Castiel said desperately. “I’m not. Wouldn’t lie about this. Can’t forget it either.”

“Hey, hey.” Dean reached through the bars, and Castiel flinched away from his hand. Dean drew back, disappointed. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he said quietly. “I’d never hurt you. And I believe you.”

A sob caught in the back of Castiel’s throat. “I just want it to end,” he whispered, gripping his calves tightly. “Even the hospital was better than this. At least in the hospital I wasn’t alone all the time.”

Dean curled his strong, tanned fingers around the bars of Castiel’s cage. “We’ll get you out,” he whispered, clenching his fist. “Castiel, I promise, we’ll get you out. All of you. You’re not going to live like this forever.”

“Not living,” Castiel muttered, wiping his eyes furiously. “Existing. That’s all this is, just existing, and waiting for death. I’ve been waiting to die for the past thirty years.”

This time, Castiel did not flinch when Dean reached through the bars and laid a comforting hand on his shoulder. He had the strangely confident feeling that the man was not going to hurt him. “I’m not going to let you die,” Dean said fiercely. “And I’m not going to let you stay like this either. We’ll get you out, and you can be free.”

It was a nice sentiment, but one that was much too good to be true. Castiel sighed, his wings flaring restlessly, brushing against the confines of the cage. “I want to sleep,” he mumbled, turning away from Dean. “Please go. Please let me sleep.”

Dean sighed. “All right, Castiel,” he said, withdrawing his hand, Castiel’s shoulder markedly colder with its absence. Something soft brushed against Castiel’s leg, and he turned to glance at the man. Dean had slotted his jacket through the bars. “Stay warm. I’ll come for you as soon as possible.”

Castiel nodded, picking up the jacket with shaking fingers and wrapping it around his starved frame. The scent of Dean, strong and steady, filled his nose, surprisingly comforting. He curled awkwardly on the floor of his cage, clutching at the fabric, and was asleep within minutes of Dean shutting the door behind him.


	5. Backlash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Having obtained the proof his group needs, Dean gives the footage of Castiel speaking to Ash. The new information does not go down easily with everyone, and Dean realizes just how strong anti-angel rights sentiment is. Fortunately, two newcomers show up who may put the final nail in the coffin of medical slavery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How's the pacing? I feel like I might be rushing things, but I could only draw out time at the lab for so long. Let me know your thoughts and suggestions in the comments!

Dean practically burst through the doors to Ellen’s house, his eyes wild and his shirt mussed, having left his air car parked haphazardly over the Launchpad. “Ellen!” he shouted, slamming the door behind him. “You wanted proof? If this isn’t proof, nothing is!”

Ellen's live-in computer guy, Ash, poked his head out from the living room. “Ellen’s not home right now,” he said, beckoning Dean in. “There’s a meeting in Barcelona. She launched in an hour ago, but she should be back sometime tomorrow, if not earlier.”

“Sound jet?” Dean asked, collapsing on the couch and handing his glasses over to Ash.

The man snorted, rolling his eyes. “Please. Like we’re still stuck with sound jets. New prototype for half light-speed air car got approved last week. Say it with me: I am your new god.” He fiddled with the glasses, popping the miniscule camera out from behind the one way glass frames. “I’m guessing you got something good.”

“Play it,” Dean ordered, his nerves thrumming with anticipation.

Ash slipped the micro camera into a barely visible port on the side of his computer tablet. An image of Dean’s office popped up in clear 3-D. “How much do I need to fast-forward?” Ash asked, speeding up the pace of the footage.

“Almost to the end,” Dean said, tapping his foot impatiently.

Ash complied, setting the recording to play at normal speed as soon as room 333 came into view. The audio quality was perfect, synched wonderfully with the video and clear as a bell. Ash’s jaw slowly slackened in shock and awe at the first word out of Castiel’s mouth; by the time the recording had finished, Dean was sure he could have knocked him over with a well-placed poke. “Damn,” Ash said finally, running his fingers through his long, greasy hair. “You’re right. This can’t wait. I’ll beam the message in to the group in Barcelona.” His fingers flew across the tablet, and Dean’s recording disappeared, replaced with the slightly grainy image of a crowded room, the higher ups of nearly every branch of PAP crowded around a single table.

“Ellen, come in. It’s Ash.” Several people glanced around the room, startled. Ellen frowned, leaning to the middle of the table and pressing a button. Ash’s image flickered onto the large screen against the far wall.

“Ash. Did something happen?” Ellen asked, folding her hands politely in her lap.

“Understatement of the year, man.” Ash’s grin was positively feral. “We’ve got them cold, Ellen. Dean didn’t just come through, he fucking smashed his way through more levels of security than even our government moles have. I’m sending you the footage. It should be there, oh, about now.”

The screen in the other room flickered, Ash’s face replaced with the footage of room 333. A triumphant smile crossed over Dean’s faces at the shocked, disbelieving looks that crossed the faces of nearly every one of the higher-ups. An excited murmur broke out among several small groups of people when Castiel began to speak, which grew to a low roar by the end of the recording. The screen blinked, and Ash’s face appeared again.

“Think that’s all the proof we need?” he asked, clapping Dean on the shoulder. “C’mon, man, get in the camera. Don’t be shy.”

“I’m not shy,” Dean scowled, edging into view of the screen. “Hey, Ellen. That proof enough?”

Ellen glanced at her colleagues. “Boy, if this doesn’t convince every single person with a brain cell to spare, nothing will,” she said, a grin spreading across her face. “Yeah. That’s proof enough. Ash, coordinate with Charlie. I want that footage on every major news network, every social media site, every kid’s vidcom. I don’t care if you have to hack the government to do it.”

“My pleasure,” Ash said, winking. “Calling Charlie now.”

A few taps of the screen later, and the room in Barcelona disappeared, to be replaced with a familiar face. Dean nearly choked as the cheerful redhead from IT glanced at her screen, her eyes narrowing as she took in Ash and Dean. “Hey, Ash. What are you calling about?”

“Orders from Ellen.” Ash grinned like an overeager puppy, shaking Dean’s shoulder. “This guy’s a fucking genius. Wait ‘til you see the footage he got today. Ellen wants it everywhere—the news, the net, personal com devices. You game?”

“Oh honey, you don’t even need to ask,” Charlie answered, winking. “Hiya, Dean. I knew you were too nice to be one of the bad guys.”

“Nice to see you’re not a corporate bloodsucker after all,” Dean replied, returning the wink. Charlie laughed, reaching up to pull her hair back out of her face.

“All right, send me the footage. I’ll take news networks, you take personal coms and the net?” she offered, turning her attention back to Ash.

“Race you,” Ash said with a grin.

“You’re gonna lose,” Charlie snarked back, smirking. Ash chuckled, sending her the files and switching off the 3-D.

“Get me a beer, will you?” he asked, not looking up from his screen. Dean rose, sliding into the kitchen and grabbing two bottles, one for Ash and one for himself. He placed the bottle on the table next to the computer, knowing better than to interrupt the hacker when he was at work.

Half an hour later, Ash leaned back, satisfied. “And done,” he said, reaching for his still unopened beer. “I am a badass.”

“You’ve got a message,” Dean said, glancing at Ash’s blinking text com. The man grabbed it and pulled up the message, his eyes widening with disbelief. **_Turn on the TV,_** the message read.

“Damnit, no way she beat me!” Ash spluttered, seizing the remote and turning the television on with a hard click. The lights in the room dimmed as a news channel popped up, slightly blue with the typical tones of an old-fashioned hologram television.

The footage was playing on every channel, from news networks to children’s programming. Dean whistled, impressed with Charlie’s thoroughness. “Think she’s gonna give you a run for the title of resident badass,” he teased, punching Ash playfully.

“Son of a _bitch,”_ Ash moaned, busying himself with his beer. “I’m gonna need another drink.”

Dean snickered, settling down on the couch to stare at the footage. He heard a shout of surprise from next door, and instantly imagined swaths of neighbors turning on their televisions to catch a little late night sports, only to find hardcore evidence of the unpleasant truth before their eyes. It was a beautiful thought. Dean wished he could see the face of every naysayer who had claimed that angels were not people.

The next several hours passed in a flurry of activity. Messages from members all across the globe came flooding in, demanding information, requesting access to the hard copies of the recording. Dean spent the night caught up in fielding requests and answering questions, and had not even gone through half of them when his wrist-chronometer beeped, warning him that it was about time to leave for work.

“Guess it’s time to go get fired,” Dean said cheerfully, clapping Ash on the shoulder. “Keep my text com, will you? Field the questions people send me. I’ll probably be back pretty quickly.”

Ash waved him away, caught up in monitoring the explosion of chat threads on a popular social networking site. Dean grinned, shaking himself and heading out to the air car. He’d never been so delighted to go in for a firing in his life.

0o0o0o0o0

“You understand why we’re terminating your employment with our company, I assume.”

Dean rolled his eyes, annoyed. He had expected Meg to fire him as soon as he walked through the door. He had not expected her to drag him into her office to meet with Dick Roman, the head of the company. “Yep. Loud and clear. Excuse me for not giving two shits about it.”

“Mr. Winchester, do you have any idea what your actions are going to cost not only the company, but the world at large?” Roman demanded, leaning back in Meg’s plush office chair. The man was reedy and expressive, and Dean disliked him even more in person than he had in theory. This was the epitome of a man who did not have the concept of sinking to a low level, so long as he made a buck along the way.

“Yep. Made people open their eyes. Cost you your little paycheck, hopefully cost the world its slaves. Seems like my job’s a pretty fair trade for that.”

Roman pursed his thin lips with the air of a man who was not used to being spoken to so candidly. “You’re pretty cocky for a man who’s about to have no job, no references, and a terrible reputation on his head. No one’s going to hire you after this little stunt.”

Dean shrugged, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “You know what, Dick?” he asked, cocking an eyebrow at the man. “I. Don’t. Care.”

Roman scowled, glaring at Meg. “How did you let his involvement in an angel rights group slip your notice?” he demanded, his tone low and threatening.

“With all due respect, sir, he passed the initial background check. Our people were still finishing up the in depth security clearance. It’s the policy you set up for this company, sir.” Meg did not seem threatened, nor did she sound particularly deferential. If Dean didn’t know better, he would think that she was annoyed with her boss for challenging her hiring selections.

“Well, we’ll have to change that. Can’t have another rat getting into the company.” Dick steepled his fingers together. “Fire everyone who has not already passed the in depth clearance. We’ll start from scratch.”

Meg looked unhappy, but she nodded nonetheless. “Out, Winchester,” she snapped. “Clear out your desk and leave. You are banned from the premises.”

Dean shrugged, rising and delivering the research director an ironic salute. “Best of luck with the public backlash,” he said sarcastically, removing himself from the office.

He had cleaned out his desk and was halfway to his air car when Meg caught up with him. “You’re a reckless little moron, you know that, right?” she demanded, blocking the driver’s side door.

“It’s dangerous to stand right next to a car on the Launchpad, you know that, right?” Dean shot back.

Meg’s eyes narrowed. “You idiots really think you can change things from the outside with a little public outcry, don’t you? It’d be cute if it weren’t so stupid.”

“Keep telling yourself that, princess,” Dean snapped, shoving her away from the door.

“Fine. Don’t listen to me. What do you think’s going to happen to the angels when a bunch of facilities realize keeping them around is going to make their stock prices drop? You’re an idiot if you think government directors are just going to let them go.”

“I’m sure you believe that. You know, because you care so much.” Dean dropped into the air car and slammed the door shut behind him. “Sorry, baby,” he muttered, stroking its navigation system. He inserted his owner’s chip into the card reader and grinned as the car lit up, hovering several feet off the ground. He set the car to manual and sped off towards his house. Autopilot was overrated; there was nothing like flying through the air with nothing but reflexes and experience to prevent a crash.

It was a five minute flight to Ellen’s house if he kept to only 300 miles an hour. Dean pulled into the neighborhood, determined to collect his coms from Ash and head back to his house, only to find a mass of air and ground cars parked on the street outside Ellen’s house. A veritable mob of people stood, some pressed against the windows, some hurling debris, all screaming. Dean gulped. It seemed that the backlash had arrived.

Dean parked the car and exited, pushing his way determinedly through the crowd. A woman launched herself at him, screaming obscenities; he sidestepped quickly, directly into the grip of a dark, burly man. “You the guy who took that video?” the woman screamed, hurling a bottle at Dean’s head. Dean ducked, the bottle clattering against the chest of the man behind him. “You evil, evil son of a bitch!” she screamed. “My kid’s got cancer! The hospital won’t send an angel to heal him! It’s your fault if he dies!”

Dean cursed, wrenching against the hold of the man behind him. The man tightened his grip, kicking the backs of Dean’s knees. Dean went down, spewing profanities as his knees connected hard against asphalt. “And my wife’s refusing treatment now, thanks to your damn video!” the man shouted, stepping hard on Dean’s calves and wrenching his hands up behind him.

“Murderer!” another person in the crowd yelled. A hard fist connected with his nose; a sickening crack sounded, and blood poured down Dean’s face. “You’re a murderer!”

The sound of splintering glass sounded behind Dean. Someone had thrown a rock through Ellen’s window. Dean struggled, his arms screaming as he wrenched fruitlessly against hard hands. Someone seized his hair, dragging his head back; a fist connected with his throat, and he gagged, struggling to breathe. He should have been prepared for this. He should have brought a stun gun to work with him.

Dean’s vision was beginning to go grey when the mob suddenly stopped, an eerie silence falling across the crowd. Gasping, Dean wrenched himself free of the burly man’s suddenly lax grip and stumbled to his feet, his eyes casting about for the source of the sudden switch in demeanor.

A tall, slender young man was making his way through the crowd, his long brown hair bound in a complex braid that fell well down his thighs. Soft white fabric draped across his body, and in his hand he clutched a long, sharp-edged knife, glinting silver in the sunlight. Following close behind him was an angel, his longish brown hair swinging slightly as he moved, outstretched, tawny wings too large for his diminutive stature. In his hand, the angel clutched a blade similar to that of the tall man; his rich, honey colored eyes were hard as he glared around, daring any of the crowd to come near him.

The tall man halted in front of Dean, his eyes scanning him, cataloguing his cuts and bruises. “You all right?” the man asked, his voice heavy with a thick, unusual accent. He extended a large hand towards Dean; without thinking, Dean grasped the stranger’s hand, forcing a smile across his puffy, pained face.

“I’ll live,” Dean said tightly, glancing around at the watchful crowd. “Thanks. Just need to get inside.”

The man cast a look at the angel, as though waiting for confirmation. Words in a strange, almost guttural tongue rolled from the angel’s lips, seeming to split the air with their power. The tall man nodded in understanding and wrapped an arm around Dean’s waist, guiding him silently towards the house. Dean allowed himself to be steered, sighing in relief as the crowd parted, shocked, before them. The man helped him over the threshold and the angel followed suit, closing the door behind them.

Dean stumbled into the living room and collapsed on the couch. Ash sat, crouching by the window, a large stun gun cradled in his hands. “I called the cops, but apparently they’re ‘busy,’” Ash said, wrinkling his nose in disgust. “Looks like it’s us against the crowd. Jo’s on her way with some buddies, but it’s gonna take her some time to get here. Guess we have to hold down the fort on our own.” He frowned, glancing up at the tall man and the angel. “Who’re you?” he asked, brushing his finger absently across the trigger.

The angel muttered something to the tall man in that strange, powerful language. The tall man rolled his eyes and responded in the same tongue. “I am Samael,” he said, gesturing at himself. “Gabriel,” he added, indicating the angel. “I am an envoy.”

“An envoy?” Dean asked, struggling to sit up. His ribs protested violently, and he collapsed, panting, on the couch.

The angel frowned and moved towards him, extending a slender hand. “Don’t,” Dean muttered, scooting back. “’S not right. I’ll be fine.”

The angel quirked an eyebrow at him, amused. “Yeah, I’m sure you will be, but I’m offering,” he said, shrugging. “We heard what you did. Kind of hard not to, with those asses screaming about it. Now hold still, will you?”

Dean winced as the angel laid his hand on Dean’s chest. The aches flooded instantly out of his body, his nose cracking painlessly back into place; the angel grimaced, and then straightened. “See? You didn’t make me heal you, and I did it anyways because you _wouldn’t_ expect it of me. Welcome to the wide world of civilization.”

“Gabriel,” Samael said, sighing. He spoke again in the strange language; Gabriel rolled his eyes and responded with words that seemed positively sarcastic.

“So,” Gabriel said, settling on his knees on the ground. Samael knelt with him, sprawling easily on Ellen’s floor. “Angel rights group, huh? Guess it makes sense that I’ve never heard of that. Hospitals are notorious for keeping us in the dark.” His lips twitched with morbid amusement. “Gotta say, things are a lot more promising than I thought they’d be. Guess Luci doesn’t have to worry quite as much as he thought he did, right Samael?”

Samael shrugged, his bare, muscular shoulders rolling with the motion. “I do not blame Lucifer for worrying,” he said, the English words sliding hesitantly from his lips, as though he expected gibberish to come out. “He was right about the violence.”

“Hey, not to butt in, but we’ve still got no idea who you are,” Ash piped up from underneath the window.

“Ah. Yes.” Samael straightened, managing to look regal and powerful even from his seat on the floor. “We come from the northern mountain tribes. We wish to petition your…” he muttered something to Gabriel.

“Government,” Gabriel said with an encouraging nod.

“We wish to petition your government for the release of our brethren.” Samael clasped his hands in front of him.

“Tribes?” Dean asked, confused.

“Yes,” Samael replied calmly. “Of the angels.”

Dean exchanged a blank look with Ash. “I still don’t follow,” he said, folding his arms across his chest.

“I’ll take it from here,” Gabriel said as Samael opened his mouth to respond. “Unless you think your English is good enough to handle it.”

Samael shrugged and said something in that strange, powerful language. “Thought so,” Gabriel said. He turned to regard Dean with bright amber eyes. “I’m going to admit, I don’t know what humans in general think about the angels. My experience with you guys was as a slave in the hospitals. Doesn’t give me the greatest opinion of you. From what I can tell, you guys are pretty ignorant about where angels come from, am I right?”

Dean frowned. “I know the official line,” he said. “Officially, angels are a genetic experiment set up by the government.”

A disbelieving laugh tore its way from Gabriel’s lips. “Wow,” he said scathingly, fixing Dean with an incredulous look. “And you guys actually believe that? How dense are you?”

“If that’s incorrect, you could try telling us the truth,” Ash piped up from the corner.

“Yeah, sure.” Gabriel rolled his eyes. “We’re not some byproduct of your tiny little government. We’re our own people. We did a damn good job hiding from you loons for the past several thousand years, until a few hundred years ago, when some of your people managed to trap and enslave a few of us. We’ve been fighting off trappers ever since, with mixed success.” Gabriel gestured to the man beside him. “Honestly, most of us thought you guys were just animals with no capacity for civility, but my tribe decided to take a chance in testing that. We’ve been raising Samael since he was a kid, apparently. I don’t know the details; I only got away from your slave-keepers a few months ago.” He sighed, stretching his wings, earthy feathers rippling with the motion. “Samael figured that since he’s biologically one of you muttonheads, he’d come down to parlay with your government. Get them to let our brothers and sisters go, so we can take them home. Especially the ones born in captivity. It’s not right that they’re stuck here, trapped as slaves, when they can be so much more.”

Dean could hardly believe his ears. “So—so you guys are an independent species,” he said slowly, trying to make sure he was hearing the man correctly.

“Bingo.” Gabriel’s lips twitched with amusement. “We’re our own people, with a culture and a language and a unique way of life. We generally prefer to keep to ourselves, and it was a damn nice life when you humans didn’t know we existed, outside your crazy religious myths and legends. Got to say, I’ve heard some humans talk about the infamous ‘Lucifer’ and I’m pretty sure my brother would get a kick out of those stories.” Beside him, Samael smothered a grin. “So, here we are. Take us to your leader,” he ended, his tone nearly mocking.

Dean and Ash exchanged glances. “Ellen first, then the actual government?” Ash suggested. “It’s probably going to be pretty crazy in global Parliament for a while. We’ll have to go through a bunch of hoops to get an audience with even just the American division, and this really ought to go to the World division.”

Dean nodded. “Don’t go to me for politics,” he said. “Gabriel and Samael, right?” he asked, addressing the angel and the angel-raised human. “It’s probably best if we take you to the leader of our organization while we wait to get an audience with World Parliament. That’s going to take several days at least.”

Gabriel shrugged. “I don’t know anything about human government. I trust that you guys know what you’re doing, so we’ll follow that.”

“Gabriel and I must both be allowed to speak,” Samael interjected. “Gabriel, as he is a former captive, and can tell the tale of his captivity. Myself, because I am the official envoy sent by the tribe, and I have been informed that even your government will not attempt to enslave me.”

“Of course,” Dean assured him. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“I’m calling Ellen now. Meetings in Barcelona should be coming to a close, so she ought to be here in an hour or so,” Ash said, holding up his vid com.

Dean nodded and settled back on the couch. An hour wasn’t so long to wait. Gabriel and Samael remained on the floor. “You guys can sit on the couch if you like,” Dean offered.

Samael eyed the couch warily. “Will it support our weight?” he asked.

“Angels don’t really have chairs,” Gabriel said. “Do those pads come off?”

Dean nodded. Gabriel rose and dragged two cushions off the couch, leaving the one Dean sat on. He dropped the cushions to the ground and settled down on one, while Samael slid onto the other. He offered Dean a small smile, which Dean returned.

“Want anything to drink?” Ash asked, ending his quiet call with Ellen. “Or eat? Or—shit, what do you guys like? I’m just a tech guy. This is way over my head.”

“We should accustom ourselves to human food,” Samael replied after a moment’s pause.

“Most of it’s not so different from what we eat—at least, what I’ve had,” Gabriel informed the man. “Water would be great, and any food you want to give us. We brought travel-packs, but they’ve been running short since we left the mountains.”

Dean rose and headed to the kitchen, filling several cups with water and grabbing a bag of chips from the pantry, balancing a bowl of fruit in his other hand. “I feel like a waiter,” he quipped, walking carefully back into the room and setting the cups and food down on the coffee table. “Fruit, I’m guessing you guys have. Chips are probably a human thing, but don’t quote me.”

Samael reached for the chips and pulled one out with two fingers, examining it closely. “What is this?” he asked, nibbling on the edges. “It tastes like salt.”

“Salt, potatoes, and a whole bunch of stuff that I try not to think about,” Ash answered. “It’s junk food. Glorious, delicious junk food.” He snagged a handful of chips and sat cross-legged on the floor. Dean elected to join him, rather than sitting on the couch—the height made him feel disconnected from the others.

“I gave the angel I talked to chocolate when I met him. He seemed to like it,” he said awkwardly. “I hope he’s okay. I got fired before I could talk to him again. I expected it, but still.”

Gabriel laughed. “I snagged chocolate from one of my handlers a few times. Not bad at all.” He fumbled around in the fruit bowl, pulling out a soft, slightly bruised peach. “Sweet things are good. You can keep the chips,” he joked.

“Noted,” Dean said with a grin.

“So, I’m curious.” Gabriel took a bite of the peach and grinned at Dean, juice dribbling down his chin. “What footage did you get that’s making the meatheads out there wet their pants? Most of it’s pretty common knowledge.”

Dean smiled slightly. “I went undercover at a testing facility,” he said. “Got into a room a couple times and talked to the angel there. He didn’t talk back, but he also didn’t shut me out. I sabotaged the computer system so I’d have an excuse to talk to him again. This time he talked back.”

Gabriel nodded. “Risky for him, but I’m glad he did. I’m a bit surprised though. They beat that out of us pretty thoroughly at the training camps.”

“He mentioned,” Dean said with a shudder. “I guess he decided to trust me? He didn’t like me calling him by his serial number, and asked me to stop. Told me his name. That was the first thing he said to me.”

Gabriel nodded in approval. “And I hope you quit using the serial number then.”

“Of course,” Dean said, rolling his eyes. “Why would I call him by a number when I knew his name? I’m not that much of an ass.”

Gabriel shrugged. “Hey, props to him for still knowing his name. A lot of us forget ours,” he said. “I only know mine because I was born free, and it was pretty entrenched in my head. He might have been a free born himself.”

Dean shook his head. “He talked about the breeding farms as though he had personal experience with them,” he told the man.

Gabriel frowned. “I only know one captive-born angel who remembered his name, and that’s because I managed to drag it out of him. We were in adjoining cells, and I didn’t want him to start buying into the crap that we’re just equipment,” he said slowly. “What did he call himself?”

“Castiel,” Dean answered.

Gabriel’s hand tightened around the peach, juice squishing through his fingers. “That’s him,” he said quietly. “It’s a rare name. From the sea-side tribes—there’s not many of them left. Too many humans in that area. He’s probably not of sea-side descent himself, but the person who named him was.” Gabriel shook his head. “He was transferred, but I thought it was to another hospital, not the labs.”

Dean swallowed hard. “Well, we’ll be getting him out either way,” he said fiercely. “All of you. We’re not going to stop until every single angel is free.”

Gabriel sighed heavily. “I hope so,” he murmured. “I hope so.”


	6. Encounters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Samael and Gabriel travel to the human city, and come across members of an angel rights group. They meet with regional leader Ellen Harvelle and work to set up a meeting with humanity's World Parliament.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sam's chapter. I tried to keep the overlap between his and Dean's chapters to a minimum, but they do cross over somewhat. Also, I am slightly in love with the brotherly dynamic between Gabriel and Lucifer. I would love to hear your thoughts on it.
> 
> Because this is from Sam's point of view, I have italicized the dialogue that is supposed to be in English, to represent its status as a foreign language. This is a pretty dialogue heavy chapter, so there are lots of italics. I hope it isn't distracting.

“The council has reached a decision,” Raphael rumbled, his regal voice thundering through the cavern. “Samael Watchkeeper shall be retitled Samael Speechbearer and shall go amongst the humans to petition for the release of our captive brothers and sisters. He shall be accompanied by an angel familiar with their speech, to enable him to communicate with the barbarians. We have among our number two angels who speak the language of the humans. Will either Gabriel Fastblade or Lucifer Soulstealer agree to accompany Samael?”

“I’ll go,” Gabriel said, stepping forward, his face hard and set. Upon the dais, Lucifer tensed, but said nothing.

“We hoped as much.” Michael’s measured tones roiled through the crowd, quieting the murmuring that had broken out amongst the angels present. “It would be undesirable for the council to lose Lucifer’s wisdom due to Samael’s journey.”

“This concludes the council’s judgment.” Raphael rose from the center mat, signaling the end of the session’s Judgment Day. The angels dispersed, but Samael remained behind, sure that Lucifer would want to speak with him. Gabriel hung back as well, meandering quietly across the room to stand at Samael’s side.

Lucifer removed the sash that showed his leadership position, tossing it carelessly onto his mat. Gracefully, he made his way towards Samael and Gabriel, powerful shoulders rolling as he stretched his wings. “I wish you had not agreed to go, brother,” he said quietly. “I would rather it was me. I don’t like the idea of you descending into barbarian territory, when you have just returned to us.”

Gabriel shrugged. “It makes more sense this way,” he replied. “Luci, you’re one of the only Soulstealers we’ve got, and you’re on the council. You’re needed at home. Me, I’m a Fastblade who’s decades out of practice. I haven’t worked myself back into the fabric of the tribe. Leaving will not affect us as a whole.”

“I hate your pragmatism,” Lucifer grumbled, much more the elder brother of an incorrigible little sibling than a reasonable, stoic council member.

Gabriel chuckled. “It’s okay, Luci. I’ll have a giant hulking protector with me, right Samael?” He grabbed Sam’s hand, clinging to it in mock terror. Samael shivered pleasantly at the warm touch of Gabriel’s smooth skin.

“Don’t make light of this,” Lucifer snapped. He sighed and turned to Samael. “Be safe, Samael,” he said softly, laying a hand on his shoulder. “When all is said and done, you are my ward—you’re like a son to me. I do not want anything to happen to you, any more than I would to Gabriel.”

Samael nodded. “I’ll be safe,” he promised the only father he had ever known. “Like you said—if they are too hostile, if we are in too much danger, we will return.”

Lucifer sighed and reached for his belt. “Here,” he said, handing Samael his dagger. “Take this with you.”

“I have a blade,” Samael protested, closing his fingers around the cool metal nonetheless.

Lucifer smiled. “You have the blade of a Watchkeeper. It is powerful and reliable, but in comparison to the blade of a Soulstealer, it is short and unwieldy. Naomi has empowered this one. It will be more useful in a tight spot than yours would be.”

Samael nodded, swallowing the growing lump in his throat. “Then keep mine for me,” he said, pressing the hilt of his own blade into Lucifer’s hand. “We will exchange them again when I come back.”

Lucifer nodded, reaching out and drawing Samael into a hug. “If you let the humans take you, I’m petitioning my fellow council members to demote you down to fledgling status when we get you back,” he threatened, and the words were as warm as any well-wishes would have been.

“That’s fair,” Samael replied with a laugh.

Lucifer embraced Gabriel and then stepped back, unshed tears glinting in his eyes. “Take whatever supplies you will need from my set. I will await your return.” He swallowed hard. “Promise me you will return.”

“I promise,” Samael whispered fervently. This was his home. A diplomatic mission, no matter how long it took, would never change that.

0o0o0o0o0

Human architecture was strange, their dwellings elaborate and built out of materials Samael had never seen. Wingless contraptions soared through the sky in neat lines, and wheeled containers sped by at speeds that no animal or angel could ever hope to reach. Crowds mingled—it seemed to Samael that there were more humans in one corner of their city than there were angels in all the tribes of the world. Gabriel informed him wryly that things were even louder and more congested during the day; Samael could hardly imagine it.

They had traveled by day until they reached human territory, and then they had switched to night. It was easier for Gabriel’s wings to go unnoticed in the dark shadows of towering buildings, even as glowing lights illuminated their way. Indeed, Samael seemed to attract more strange looks from passersby than did Gabriel. Gabriel suggested that it was probably the hair and clothing; he had suggested that Samael not change his appearance to fit that of regular humans. They needed to show that angels were proud of their culture.

And oh, how strange humans were in appearance. Samael was accustomed to the soft, draped fabrics of the angels, winding about the body and secured with multiple braided belts, baring arms and torsos in the summer, covering fully only when the winter chills became too much to withstand. Humans seemed to be more modest; it was rare to see an individual not fully covered. They wore their hair in a variety of styles, but none had hair as long as Samael’s. Gabriel explained that humans tended to cut their hair. Samael could appreciate the convenience, but at the same time, it seemed strange. Apart from fledglings and Gabriel himself, he had never seen short hair. Even Lucifer, whose hair had been shorn when he was been trapped amongst the humans, had a braid that brushed his ankles when unbound fully.

The first fight that Samael engaged in with a human happened shortly after his arrival in the city. A large man, reeking heavily of something that Gabriel had called alcohol, had accosted him as they walked, demanding to know his price. Samael was not sure what the man had meant—was he trying to buy Gabriel? Had he noticed his wings? In faltering English, Samael had tried to communicate that Gabriel was not for sale, but the man had not seemed to understand him. He had backed Samael into a wall and attempted to divest him of his clothing; Samael had felt little regret in stabbing the man in the middle of the street.

The second encounter was not so much a fight as it was halting a slaughter. It was daytime, and Samael and Gabriel had been sleeping in the shadows of a tall bush outside a residential area, when shouts and the sound of shattering glass had awoken them. Samael had roused Gabriel and taken off at a run, curious as to what was going on. A mob, a group of people nearly as large as Samael’s entire tribe, had stood in a circle around a single man, screaming obscenities. Even with his rudimentary understanding of human speech, Samael had been able to pick up on what had made them so angry, and the knowledge floored him. This man, whoever he was, was working to free the angels. He was a potential ally! However, he would not be an ally for long if the mob killed him.

Samael shouldered his way through the crowd, which stilled in shock at the sight of Gabriel. The man in question lay, bruised and bloody on the ground, but he scrambled to his feet at the sight of the two newcomers. Samael frowned, trying to remember human greetings, and at last extended a hand towards him. _“You all right?”_ he asked tentatively, the words thick and strange upon his tongue.

_“I’ll live,”_ the man said, grimacing as he glanced at the surrounding mob. _“Thanks. Just need to get inside.”_

If he was correct, the man wanted to get into the dwelling, but Samael was unsure. He looked at Gabriel for confirmation.

“My guess is he lives here. Let’s help him in before the crowd starts attacking again,” Gabriel said.

Samael nodded and wrapped his arm around the injured man’s waist, helping him into the dwelling. The crowd made no move to stop them, for which Samael was grateful. There were far too many of them for him to take on with only Gabriel’s help.

The conversation was too fast-paced for Samael to follow all of it, but he picked up on the important bits. Humans did not know where the angels came from. Some humans still wanted to free them, and were making some progress towards that goal. Samael and Gabriel were to meet with a leader of this abolitionist movement, while they waited for an opportunity to meet with the council that ruled all humans. Samael wondered how a single council could rule all of humanity. Breaking into tribes was much simpler.

The humans—Dean and Ash, he finally found out—were much more pleasant than Samael would have expected. He hoped that his biological human family was like those two. Perhaps they were in favor of freeing the angels. He supposed he would never know, but the idea was surprisingly comforting.

After a short wait, the leader of the abolitionist movement—at least, one of the leaders, for Samael was pretty sure that Dean and Ash had said there were several—arrived at the dwelling. Something about the no-nonsense woman’s demeanor reminded Samael of Michael. She was probably very competent.

_“Ash, you said some people wanted to meet with me?”_ she called. She stopped short at the room’s entrance, her eyes widening as she noticed Gabriel.

_“Hello,”_ Gabriel said, raising a hand in greeting. _“I’m Gabriel, and this is Samael. You’re with this whole free-the-angels thing?”_

The woman swallowed hard. _“Yes,”_ she said finally. _“I’m Ellen Harvelle. I’m the regional leader of People for Angels for People.”_

_“Cute name,”_ Gabriel said, nudging Samael with a sharp elbow. “Samael, say hi,” he urged in Enochian.

_“Hello,”_ Samael said with a small smile.

Ellen shifted, looking at them. _“Well, I have to say, this isn’t what I was expecting. Frankly, that’s a relief. I thought I was going to have to meet with a bunch of pro-slavery reporters trying to bite my head off.”_

Gabriel laughed. _“Hardly,”_ he said. _“We’re envoys from the Northern Mountain tribes. We’ve come to request the release of our fellow angels, so they can return home free. But according to Ash and Dean here, you guys didn’t know we had tribes, or a home to return to at all, right?”_

Ellen swallowed. _“I’d heard rumors, but we haven’t been able to get a mole into the higher up areas to get proof,”_ she said. _“The background checks are too stringent. It’s true, then? Angels are their own race?”_

_“Wait, you knew this?”_ Dean demanded, leaning forward. _“And you never said anything?”_

_“Rumors without proof are even more destructive than keeping quiet,”_ Ellen replied tightly. _“We feared that starting any rumors of the sort would result in the government executing any angels who could indicate whether or not we were correct. But Gabriel—Gabriel, right?”_ The angel nodded. _“Gabriel is a much more convincing spokesperson than any member of PAP could be, just by being an angel.”_ She turned a scrutinizing gaze towards Samael. _“You’re not an angel, though. How are you involved?”_

Samael shifted slightly.  _“I was raised by the angels,”_ he explained, faltering slightly over the unfamiliar words. _“It was long assumed that humans were little better than animals, barbarians who enslaved others out of sheer cruelty. One of our number, Inias, believed that humans had the capacity for civility, and wished to raise a human child up with angel ways, to see if humans could be civilized. He brought me to the tribes as a child, and I have been raised as an angel ever since.”_

_“So they kidnapped you.”_ Ellen frowned. _“That’s not going to go over well with the press.”_

Samael did not know what Ellen meant by _the press,_ but the rest of her statement was perfectly clear. _“Humans have been taking angels for more than a hundred years and enslaving them,”_ he replied coolly. _“I am the only human child they took, and they did not enslave me. They raised me as their own, and I am grateful for it. I would not want to have been brought up in a community of slavers and torturers. As I see it, the angels rescued me.”_

Ellen held up her hands in surrender. _“I’m not arguing with you there myself,”_ she explained. _“I’m just letting you know how humans in general are going to see it. Might want to keep quiet about that aspect of your life when this goes up before World Parliament.”_

_“Of course.”_ Samael shrugged.

Ellen sighed. _“This is good,”_ she said finally. _“This gives us a much stronger case. I’ve been fielding calls all day from people insisting that Dean simply trained Castiel to mimic the sounds of a script. If we can have pro-slavery activists throw their own questions out at Gabriel, it will go a long way to convincing the naysayers that angels can actually think and understand language.”_

_“I’m good with that,”_ Gabriel said, popping one of the remaining grapes into his mouth. _“Set me up for interviews or whatever. As long as no one tries to enslave me again, I’m perfectly fine interacting with whatever humans want to talk to me.”_

Ellen smiled. _“You’re under our protection,”_ she assured him. _“People might not like PAP, but they’re also not going to mess with us. Not when public opinion has been so sharply divided.”_ She ran a hand through her short, shoulder-length blonde hair. _“I’ll work on setting up an audience with World Parliament, but it might take some time. Do you have a place to stay?”_

Gabriel shook his head. _“We’ve been traveling in the open by night and sleeping in the bushes by day,”_ he replied. _“Personally, I’d appreciate lodging somewhere where the lunatics can’t get to me.”_

Ellen turned to Dean. _“You have room to put them up in your house?”_ she asked.

_“Yeah,”_ Dean answered with a grin. _“And my address isn’t public knowledge, so it’s not likely that we’ll get extremists throwing rocks at the window or anything.”_

Ellen glanced at the shattered glass on the floor. _“Well, thank goodness for insurance,”_ she said finally. _“We’ll put up a tarp until we can get that fixed. Might be wise to turn on the electric field overnight, though, so don’t try to drop in without calling first.”_

Dean nodded. Samael decided that it would be best to follow Gabriel’s lead in the rest of the conversation. Thinking in the language of humanity— _English_ , it was called _English_ , he had to remember—was exhausting after a while.

He wished they had a way to get a message to Lucifer. He knew that his guardian would fret and worry until both he and Gabriel had returned home safely.  Surely it would ease Lucifer’s mind, knowing that they had met up with a group of humans who supported them in their cause.

Riding in Dean’s contraption—an _air car,_ he called it, was unnerving to Samael. He had not flown since he was a child, when he had been small enough for Lucifer to carry him in his arms, and never at such a velocity. Gabriel seemed to find it perfectly safe, which was a small comfort to Samael.

_“Home sweet home,”_ Dean declared when they arrived at his dwelling. It was small in comparison to many human buildings, but still at least double the size of Lucifer’s set. _“You guys have been sleeping during the day, right? Do you want me to set you up in the guest room now?”_

Gabriel shook his head. _“We ought to re-orient our sleeping patterns to nighttime,”_ he said with a shrug. “Besides, I don’t know about you, but I’m not sure I want to sleep while our host is awake, friendly as he seems,” he muttered to Samael in Enochian. Samael could not help but agree.

_“That works,”_ Dean said. He opened his mouth as though to speak, when a loud buzzing sounded from one of his pockets. _“Crap. One second.”_

Dean fished around in his strange human clothing and pulled out a small, metal device, the source of the buzzing. _“Damnit,”_ he muttered, pressing a button. A blue-tinted image of two human figures fizzled into existence above the device. _“Hi, Mom. Hi, Dad.”_

_“Dean!”_ The woman sounded relieved. _“Thank god. We’ve been trying to call you all day! Please, tell me that wasn’t you on the news last night.”_

Dean groaned. _“Will you feel better if I lie?”_ he asked, tapping his foot and backing away from Samael and Gabriel.

“He doesn’t want to get us in the video,” Gabriel murmured to Samael. “My guess is that his parents aren’t nearly as supportive of angel rights as he is.”

_“What the hell were you thinking?”_ the man demanded. Samael assumed that he was Dean’s father. _“Dean, people are out for your blood. At least half of our neighbors are calling for your death, and those are just the ones screaming in the streets where we can hear them. Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”_

_“Dad,”_ Dean said, clearly frustrated, _“I know the risks. I’ve always known them. And I know you’re not big fans of PAP, but this is way bigger than just me. Don’t tell me you don’t believe that after seeing the video. I know you didn’t believe me all those times I told you angels are people when I was a kid, but they are. Please tell me you’re not so blind you don’t see that.”_

Dean’s mother laid a hand on his father’s shoulder as the man opened his mouth, the motion blurring the image for a split second. _“It’s just a lot to take in,”_ she said firmly. _“And while we’re personally not angry with you, we’re family. The rest of the world won’t agree.”_

_“Are you forgetting that if it weren’t for medical angels, your mother would be dead?”_ Dean’s father demanded furiously.

Dean sucked in a breath. _“No, I haven’t forgotten,”_ he said coldly. _“And Mom, don’t take this wrong—I’m glad you’re alive, but I’m not glad it happened because we kept slaves for that purpose.”_

_“Dean!”_ his father thundered furiously.

_“Oh hush, John.”_ Dean’s mother fixed him with a sad gaze. _“Dean, your father and I have already lost one child. Please understand why we’re frightened now. Losing you would be too much.”_

_“I know, Mom,”_ Dean said roughly. _“I know. And I don’t have any plans to die. Yeah, things are pretty turbulent now, but they’ll calm down. And even if they don’t, at least I did something important with my life.”_

_“Don’t talk like that,”_ his mother ordered. _“You have a lot more life ahead of you, and I am determined that you will live it to the fullest. Please, just be careful.”_

_“I will.”_ Dean sighed. _“Hey, I’ve got company, so I should let you go.”_

_“What company?”_ his father demanded sharply. _“Dean, you have to be careful about who you let in. They’re people you already know, right? People who aren’t going to try to kill you?”_

Dean laughed. _“I doubt they’ll try to kill me,”_ he said wryly. _“I can’t tell you much more than that, but trust me. They’re safe.”_

_“You’d better be right,”_ Dean’s father grumbled. The image fizzled out as swiftly as it had appeared.

Dean sighed and pocketed the device. _“Sorry about that,”_ he said apologetically. _“Come on. Let’s get inside before we draw another crowd.”_

Samael followed the human and his brother, mulling through the new information. They might have allies, but it seemed that the majority of the human population hated their guts. Maybe Lucifer was right to be so worried. Maybe it was dangerous for them to be here at all.

But what else could he do?


	7. Medical Angel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With public opinion growing volatile, the testing labs make arrangements for the angels they have in custody. Unwilling to lose his livelihood, Alastair steals Castiel and takes him to the house of a former training camp breaker.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As predicted by several people in the comments, Dean's video has no good outcome for Castiel. I am so, so sorry.
> 
> Alastair and Azazel were previously acquainted. Alastair knew the whole time what goes on in the camps, and that angels have minds. Just a little fun fact that I think fits pretty well with his character.
> 
> Warnings: torture, brief reference to rape, broken Castiel, Castiel's shattered trust in Dean.

Castiel woke to Alastair slamming open his door, the man’s eyes narrowed to mean slits as he glared at Castiel. “You,” the man hissed, striding over to the cage. Castiel shrank back, his heart pounding frantically against his ribs. “You little shit. Think the world is your damn oyster, hm? Think you can just say a few pretty words and you’ll walk free, do you?”

Castiel sucked in a breath, staring at Alastair with disbelief. Dean had betrayed him? He should have expected this. Creator, but he was an idiot for trusting a human! Castiel shuddered, pulling his wings up over his face.

Alastair unlocked the cage door and wrenched it open, clenching his fist in Castiel’s feathers and pulling him out with strong, iron fingers. His eyes hardened as they lit upon Dean’s jacket, crumpled on the floor of the cage. He shook Castiel angrily. “Where did you get that, little rat?” he demanded furiously. Castiel closed his eyes and waited for the forthcoming blow. Instead, Alastair shook him again. “Doesn’t matter. I can guess—Dean Winchester. It can stay in the cage for all I care. Lab’s sending all their angels back to the camps until the government can figure out what the hell to do with you little bastards,” he growled. Castiel gasped, pulling back instinctively. He couldn’t take another session at the camps. It would destroy him! “Fortunately, I have a contingency plan, and no one here’s going to stop me if I walk out with a piece of merchandise—not when we’re not going to be making any more money off of you anyways.”

Castiel stumbled, his legs shaking as he walked for the first time in years. Alastair dragged him from the room, pulling his arm mercilessly as he led him through the halls. Castiel did not have time to appreciate the fresh air of the outdoors before Alastair forced him unceremoniously into the trunk of a large, ramshackle ground car. “Keep quiet back there, princess. We’ve got a long way to go.” He slammed the trunk on Castiel, swathing him in darkness.

He was an idiot. Had he really let a smile and some pretty words about angel’s rights lull him into a false sense of security? Castiel cursed himself, clenching his fists. From the way Alastair was speaking, he would be lucky to live out the day. Then again, maybe surviving would be a curse itself. How long had he begged for death? Maybe Alastair meant to end his suffering.

From the limited time Castiel had spent in human vehicles, he had grown to understand that ground cars were slow in comparison to air cars, and it felt like hours before Alastair stopped the vehicle. Blinding light swept through the trunk, and Castiel squinted, struggling to see. “Get out,” Alastair snapped, reaching in and seizing his arm. He wrenched Castiel out of the trunk and shoved him, spinning him around. “Walk.”

Castiel swallowed his dread and obeyed, each footstep heavier than the last. Alastair shoved him whenever he slowed, forcing him towards a small, isolated building, surrounded by a barbed-wire fence and a dusty lawn. “Azazel!” Alastair shouted as they reached the door, pressing a loud buzzer. “Open up!”

Barely a minute passed before the door swung open. Yellow eyes flashed as the elderly man in the doorway, still intimidating despite his years, looked down at Castiel before directing his gaze to Alastair. “Unless I’m completely mistaken, that’s the rat who talked,” he said finally. “I take it the government is shutting down their organizations?”

“It hasn’t come to that, but it’s going to.” Alastair scowled and kicked Castiel, forcing him over the threshold. The yellow eyed man closed the door behind them, locking it securely.

“Then you think it’s time to go underground?” he asked quietly.

“Of course it’s time to go underground,” Alastair snapped. “Oh, I doubt those of us who worked with angels will be arrested since it was legal at the time, but you know the bleeding-hearts who make up public opinion. They’re going to yank all the angels from the hospitals and set them loose. They’re already recalling the equipment from the testing labs. It’s only a matter of time before none of them are left.”

“Right.” The yellow eyed man sighed with frustration.

“No one’s going to hire anyone who worked directly with angels—hell, they’ll probably even cut off your pension. Once word gets out about the training camps, there’s going to be investigations, and probably a blacklist. I’ll be lucky to get a position in fast food.”

Azazel nodded. “Of course,” he said, disgusted. He gestured at Castiel. “And you’ve brought this along why?”

“Scarcity,” Alastair said grimly. “The medical community has grown too reliant on angels. There hasn’t been real medical progress made since the twenty-seventh century. There’s going to be a whole host of people with incurable diseases who can’t be helped by the doctors. How much do you think they’d pay for access to an angel?”

Azazel whistled. “That’s not a bad plan,” he said slowly. “Not a bad plan at all. So, we keep the angel around as black-market medicine?”

“Exactly.” Alastair grinned. “Who cares if we can’t get jobs then? This little rat’s going to make us money hand over fist.” He shook Castiel for emphasis.

Castiel shivered, fear clawing at his chest. He’d like to think that a return to life as a medical angel would be an improvement on his life as a test subject, but something in Alastair’s tone made him think twice about that assumption. A whimper built up in his chest, and to his horror, came out in a whining, shuddering gasp. Two pairs of human eyes turned towards him, Alastair’s greedy and furious, the yellow eyed man’s cold and clinical.

“And you said this is the one who talked, right?” Azazel asked, reaching out and catching Castiel’s chin between claw-like fingers. His gaze bore down on Castiel, but the angel could not look away; he gulped, allowing his muscles to go slack. Alastair grabbed him before he could fall and held him up, his grip sending bruises blossoming across Castiel’s skin.

“The very same,” Alastair replied with a cruel smile. “Makes this all the more poetic, doesn’t it?”

“Very.” The yellow eyed man sighed. “I’ve got a training camp grade bed in the back room. Lock him down before he gets any bright ideas. We’ll wait and see if the government does clear the angels out of the hospitals before putting out word in the underground that we have an angel, all ready and set to heal anyone who can pay.”

Alastair steered Castiel through the house, kicking his ankles whenever he stumbled. He nudged open a door and forced Castiel through it, manhandling him down onto a hard, flat bed. He tied Castiel down, thick, tight-woven straps securing his ankles and wrists, then wrapping around his thighs, upper arms, and torso. His wings remained unbound, but trapped as they were under his body, he could hardly move them.

Castiel grimaced, pulling at the bindings. As he had feared, they held fast; he wasn’t going anywhere. “What led you to forget your training, hm, angel?” Alastair asked, running his bony fingers through Castiel’s hair. “I know it wasn’t something that I did. Was it Winchester? They say that he’s quite the angel-rights bitch.”

Castiel glared straight ahead, swallowing the lump that rose in his throat at the mention of Dean. It wasn’t fair! One slip-up, one time forgetting his training, and he had managed to make his miserable life even worse. He wished he had never met the man. Dean Winchester was lucky that Castiel was strapped to a bed, because if he ever got free, the first thing he was going to do was hunt him down and wring the life from his eyes, consequences be damned.

“Hey!” Alastair slapped him, jarring Castiel back to the present, away from his fantasies of revenge. “I know you can talk, pretty boy. It was all over the news yesterday. So, why don’t you open that pretty little mouth and tell me what’s going through that head of yours, hm?”

He would not be tricked again. Castiel clenched his teeth and glared, but he did not speak. Alastair sighed. “Oh well, it was a thought. I get the feeling you and I are going to become even better acquainted than before. Maybe you’ll talk to me later.” The man tapped Castiel’s jaw with a long, skeletal finger. “In the meantime, you and I can still have some fun. It’ll be a few weeks at least before Parliament makes its inevitable decision to set all the angels loose from the hospitals. We won’t need you as a healer until then.” He grinned, a feral expression that sent shivers running down Castiel’s spine. “And since we don’t need you to heal other people right now, there’s nothing stopping me from making you wiggle like a fish on a hook.”

Castiel hissed, the first noise he had ever made in reaction to Alastair’s words. His tormentor laughed gleefully. “Oh, good, you do understand me. And here I was starting to think Winchester had pulled some sort of con.” He traced Castiel’s cheek with a careless finger. “Tell me, do you think he knew this would happen when he broadcasted that video for the entire world to see? Think he knew someone would take you away and make you their personal little money machine? I’ll bet he did. I think he just didn’t care.” He dug his fingernails into Castiel’s face, half-moon crescents of skin splitting under the pressure. “You always did bleed so pretty, angel,” he mused, drawing his hand back and licking the blood away.

“Alastair.” The yellow eyed man entered the room, throwing barely a glance in Castiel’s direction. “If you’re going to play with your food, do it right. I’ve still got all the equipment from my time as a breaker.”

“They let you keep it when you retired?” Alastair asked, clearly delighted.

“Of course.” Azazel bared teeth that nearly matched his eyes in color. “I ran seven camps by the time I retired, and I had broken countless angels. Hell, the only reason I retired was that they don’t keep breakers on after we hit seventy. I’m still fully qualified to handle unruly angels, so naturally I was allowed to keep the equipment I accumulated over years of loyal service.”

“Interesting,” Alastair mused, casting a dark glance at Castiel. “I’d love to play with government grade toys.”

“Just don’t break him more than he can repair,” Azazel ordered. “This is a completely different caliber than medical and testing equipment. It was designed to inflict massive damage upon angels; prolonged use will result in injuries that even they can’t repair. Play it safe, if you plan to make any money off of him at all.”

“Of course,” Alastair said dismissively. “I don’t break my toys. That’s your job.”

Azazel’s grin was positively feral. “Yes, I suppose it is.” He shrugged. “If we’re going black market, we might want to see how the rat does, then think about expanding our efforts. I’d love to sink my teeth into some fresh-caught angel again. There’s nothing like seeing the fire leave their eyes, watching despair sink in when they realize they’re trapped.” He grinned. “Maybe we can even snag a female angel. They do just as well in certain areas as real women. Ever been in an angel’s cunt?”

Castiel listened in horror, jerking against the straps that held him in place, for all that he knew it was a futile exercise. He knew that humans were cruel—Alastair was proof of that. And he had experienced the horror of interacting with angel breakers first-hand in his time at the training camps, but somehow he had assumed that they all saw it as a job, a necessity in the unrelenting machine of medical angel production. Never had he thought that there were humans who enjoyed breaking angels just to break them. Torture, sure—again, Alastair had made that clear from the day Castiel had arrived at the testing lab—but there was a difference between torturing a broken angel and actually breaking one. The thought had never even crossed Castiel’s mind.

The look of glee that flitted across Alastair’s face made it clear that he noticed Castiel’s distress. “Well, what do you know, I think the little angel here’s trying to get away!” Castiel stilled, terrified that he might have only encouraged the humans by struggling. “Go get your kit. I want to try those toys out.”

“No,” Castiel gasped before he could stop himself. Alastair’s grin only widened.

“Yes,” he breathed, leaning in close enough that Castiel could smell his rank breath, hot on his skin. “Consider this your punishment, little angel. You’ve cost me my job and you’ll pay the price. I _loved_ that job, you know. But, it is what it is, mm? Keeping you as a black-market bitch will compensate quite nicely. And when you’re not busy healing up the sick and disturbed…” Alastair chuckled, his eyes roving across Castiel’s trembling body. “Well, then I get to play with you.”

“Do you always talk to your playthings?” Azazel entered the room, dragging behind him a stuffed, oversized briefcase.

“Sometimes.” Alastair pulled away from Castiel and opened the case, his grin widening as he examined the contents. “Well, now, isn’t this impressive?” He pulled forth a wickedly curved knife, which glinted in the dim light. “What does this one do?”

Azazel smiled. “That one’s got a micro-serrated edge. It looks perfectly smooth, but it catches the skin and tears the edges. Generally, we dip it in liquid radon before use. Makes it much harder for the instrument to heal its flesh. It’s not one that causes permanent damage, but it hurts like a bitch. I’ve seen newbie guards cut themselves with them, and let me tell you, it takes weeks to heal. Completely pulverizes human cells.” He sighed. “Unfortunately, I don’t have a stash of liquid radon floating around, or the means to keep any, but it should still rip the skin enough to slow the healing process.”

“Fascinating,” Alastair mused. “Scalpels are overrated.” He turned back to Castiel and ran the blade lightly over his collarbone. “What do you say, angel? Want to try it out?”

Castiel screamed as Alastair dug the knife into his skin, cutting deep enough to drag the tip of the knife across bone. “Oh, that’s downright musical,” the man murmured, pulling the blade free and watching with interest as Castiel’s skin began the agonizing process of knitting back together. Castiel panted, shocks of pain shooting through his body in unending waves; his empty stomach rolled and heaved in protest.

“What’s next?” Alastair asked, putting the knife down and turning back to the bag. “This one?”

“I wouldn’t recommend it,” Azazel said after a moment’s pause. “That’s a high-powered flamethrower. Not for use in confined spaces. Anyways, that one can cause permanent damage pretty easily. I’ve accidentally ruined a few angels myself with it. Chars the meat off their bones, and it grows back scarred. Angels like that are ruined for medicine; it drastically decreases their ability to heal the afflicted areas on injured humans. We kept some for testing, but mostly they were put down.”

“Mm. Pity.” Alastair replaced the flamethrower with some regret and pulled out a tube of thick glue-like paste. “This?”

“Prevents regrowth. Hair and feathers, mostly, but it can be used on severed limbs. It was originally developed about two hundred years ago by the American military sector to seal off the stumps of amputees, due to its strong bonding capabilities and ability to block off cut veins. We breakers simply adapted its use.”

“Well, that’s interesting,” Alastair mused. “Got any tweezers?”

“Tweezers won’t do the job. Here.” Azazel reached into the bag and tossed Alastair a set of pliers. “I assume you’re going for the wings.”

“Of course.” Alastair ran a hand through Castiel’s thick, glossy feathers. “Hush, now, I won’t take them all,” he soothed mockingly as Castiel jerked, his unbound wings fluttering weakly, pinned by his trapped body. “Just a few.” He grabbed Castiel’s wing and extended it with one hand, lining up the pliers with his other hand, closing them around one of Castiel’s flight feathers.

Castiel shrieked as Alastair ripped the feather from his wing, blood pooling around torn skin. Swiftly, the man squeezed a dollop of paste over the wound, sealing it. Castiel’s body fought the paste, struggling to regenerate the lost feather, but the sticky goo kept the feather sealed inside his skin, rotating and jabbing for any opening. It was as though someone had locked a spinning knife inside his flesh; he screamed again, bucking against his restraints, his wing spasming. Alastair leapt back out of his way, laughing gleefully as Castiel writhed in agony.

“Oh, that is priceless!” His words echoed through the haze in Castiel’s mind. “You’ve done this before, Azazel?”

“Plenty of times.” Azazel stepped forward and laid a commanding hand on Castiel’s wing, forcing him to still, even as pain ripped through his body. “I don’t know why it hurts them so much, but that’s more your area than mine.”

“Fascinating,” Alastair breathed. “I’ll have to take notes next time.”

_“No!”_ Castiel screamed, the prospect of this happening again too terrible to contemplate. Damn the rules—it was impossible to imagine punishment worse than this. “Don’t! Not again!”

Azazel clicked his tongue with disapproval. “I hate it when they talk,” he said, annoyed. “So unseemly. Shut him up, will you?”

Alastair picked up the micro-serrated knife and laid it against Castiel’s face. “Don’t make me use this on your pretty little tongue,” he threatened, dragging the blade lightly over Castiel’s cheek. “Don’t think I won’t do it. You heard Azazel—good angels don’t speak. Have you forgotten that talking is what got you into this mess?”

Alastair plunged the blade into Castiel’s open mouth, rotating the knife so it caught against the roof of his mouth. Castiel shrieked, only to choke as blood poured down his throat, smothering him in the split second it took before his body could begin clotting the blood and repairing the wound. He gagged, spitting blood all over Alastair’s arm, red droplets splattering the man’s shirt and skin. Alastair did not seem to mind; he pulled his hand free and examined the stains, a grin splitting his thin face.

“This is good,” he breathed, turning to face Azazel. “I guess there’s an upside to this whole debacle, isn’t there?”

“Looks like it,” Azazel replied with a dark laugh.

Castiel moaned, his exhausted body going slack in its bonds. Just when he thought his situation could not get any worse, the world decided to throw another trial at him; this time even more than the others, he wished it had simply blessed him with death. He couldn’t do this. He could not continue to live in endless torture, agony and anguish with no end in sight.

His last wish, as he sank into unconsciousness, was that Dean Winchester would be forced to suffer a similar fate, to bleed and burn as Castiel did, in penance for what the man had done to him.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean converses with Samael and Gabriel, and comes to a realization about the role that Gabriel had unknowingly played in Dean's interest in angel's rights. All is well until Dean receives a disturbing message--Castiel has gone missing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, the lexicon of Enochian (or at least, what is available on the internet) is pretty limited. The word Sam uses, "QAAL" means "of the creator". It was the closest equivalent I could find to "personhood". If anyone reading this has studied Enochian and knows a better word (or hell, can give me advice in general with it) please let me know!
> 
> That was my biggest issue with this chapter. As always, let me know your thoughts!

Angels had a culture. Angels had a language. There was an actual free-born angel staying in his house, sleeping in his guest room, determined to speak before World Parliament to petition for the release of his people. Dean shifted, unable to sleep. It had been an eventful day, and despite having stayed up all the previous night, his mind refused to shut down. He sighed, staring at the ceiling. In all his years of angel rights activism, he had never imagined that they would get this far in his lifetime. It was possible that he would live to see the angels freed.

And then what? Would they all return to their tribes? Would the angels born in captivity be accepted into the tribes? How would they find the other angels? These were uncomfortable questions. Dean almost wished that his visitors were awake so he could ask them. There was so much he didn’t know about angels—he wished he did. What was their culture like? How had they manage to evade human discovery for so long, and how had they managed to stay hidden after angels were unveiled by the government? If people had run into tribes of free-born angels, there was no way the government charade would have stood, so how had they managed to keep from being found?

There were too many questions, and not enough answers. With a sigh, Dean flung his legs off the side of his bed and stood, stretching. Coffee would be helpful. If he wasn’t going to sleep anyways, he might as well ensure that he was properly caffeinated.

Dean made his way into the kitchen and tapped his old-fashioned coffee dispenser. The machine whirred to life, signaling that it was out of grounds. Dean filled the grounds section with enough coffee to keep the machine stocked for the next several days, and after a moment’s hesitation, added a hefty dose of caffeine powder. Sometimes, regular coffee just did not cut it.

“Dean?” Dean started, turning around. Samael stood in the entryway, clothed in nothing but a short white skirt, his long hair unbound, cloaking his nearly naked body. “You are awake—why?”

Dean shrugged. “Couldn’t sleep,” he said. “Want some coffee?”

Samael blinked. “What is coffee?” he asked slowly.

“Wake-up juice,” Dean replied cheerfully. “I’ll make you a cup. If you don’t like it, I’ll drink it.” He pressed the setting for two servings and stepped back, allowing the machine to work his magic. “So, why are you up yourself?”

“I also could not sleep.” Samael hesitated before pulling out a chair, perching awkwardly as though he expected the seat to give out under his weight. “Too many thoughts.”

“I know the feeling.” Dean pulled out a chair and plunked down onto the seat. “What’s up?”

“What’s up?” Samael asked, bemused.

“I mean, what’s on your mind?”

“I see.” Samael sighed. “Many things. Being here is strange. I do not remember my human family. But being here, I wonder about them. I wonder if they think of me.”

Dean swallowed hard. “I’m sure they do,” he said roughly. “My brother disappeared when I was a kid. I still miss him. He’s probably dead, but I really hope not.” Dean sighed. “I just hope that he’s alive, and wherever he is, he’s happy, and he’s not afraid.”

Samael regarded him with sympathy. “I do not wish pain on my human family,” he said finally. “I hope they have moved on.”

Dean shrugged. Wherever Samael’s biological family was, he doubted they had gotten over their loss. He knew that his mother cried every year on Sammy’s birthday, and he could not remember a single anniversary of his brother’s disappearance where his father had not gotten stinking drunk. “Tell me about the angels who raised you,” he said, eager to change the subject.

Samael smiled. “I was raised by Gabriel’s brother, Lucifer,” he said, a fond expression crossing his face. “Lucifer is one of the strongest members of our tribe. He’s a Soulstealer—”

“Come again?” Dean interrupted.

“A Soulstealer,” Samael replied. “It is the highest rank of warrior. The name comes from the idea that the person who reaches that rank can steal your soul and send it to the creator with a single slice of his blade. Below Soulstealers are Breathtakers, and below them are Fastblades. It is an honor to be given any of the warrior ranks—or any rank in general.”

“And what are you?” Dean asked, intrigued.

Samael shrugged. “For this mission, I was granted the title Speechbearer. Before this, I was Watchkeeper. A sentry, I believe you call it.” He sighed. “Speechbearer is a new title. We have never needed one before. Watchkeepers have been around for thousands of years, and it was an honor to be one—but this is necessary.”

Dean nodded. “So, what, do you guys have your roles picked out at birth?” he asked curiously.

Samael shook his head. “How would that work?” he asked. “No. We spend our first forty-five springs as fledglings without title. When we are old enough, we express our interests, and are given options that best suit our interests and our skills. From there, we make our choice, and train in our chosen occupation. We can change this if we so choose, but that is rare. Personally, I hope that when I return home, I will be given the title Watchkeeper again.”

Dean frowned. “Forty-five springs? I guess that means years? How old _are_ you?” he asked. The man did not look older than eighteen.

Samael laughed. “I am an exception,” he informed Dean. “Humans age quickly. I am only twenty-four springs. I was fifteen springs when Naomi Spellcrafter created a draught that would allow me to age at the normal rate for an angel, and at that point I was mature enough to choose an occupation. I will age normally from now on.”

Dean nodded thoughtfully. “Man, if I’d had to choose my job when I was fifteen, I’d go crazy. I’m pretty sure I still just wanted to be a superhero at that point.”

“A what?”

“Never mind.” The coffee machine buzzed, signaling that the drink was ready. Dean rose and poured two mugs, handing one to Samael. “While we’re both up, do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”

Samael shook his head. “Part of why I came here was to answer questions,” he reminded Dean.

“Right.” Dean grinned sheepishly. “Sorry. So, um—what’s going to happen to the angels when we free them?”

“They will return home,” Samael answered steadily.

“No, I figured that for the ones who were born free. What about the ones born on the farms?”

Samael grimaced. “Gabriel spoke of the farms,” he said quietly. “It’s true, this means there will be many more angels than we can reasonably accommodate, but they are our kin. The tribes will take them in. It will be difficult, but we would not turn anyone away. From what I understand, the Council of Three in my tribe has already named Lucifer in charge of helping refugees find lodging and settle into their lives. I know Lucifer; he would gladly retire from a warrior’s life to help our brethren adjust to freedom.”

Relief blossomed in Dean’s chest. “Good,” he said, taking a sip of his rapidly cooling coffee. “I mean, PAP has a contingency plan to house angels and help them acclimate to human life, but we set that up before we realized you guys have your own culture. It wouldn’t be right for us to keep the angels here when they’ve got real homes to go to.”

Samael smiled. “Your organization seems like a good one,” he said, nodding his approval. “Why did you join? Your parents did not seem as though they are very supportive of your cause.”

Dean grimaced. “When I was really little, our house burned down,” he said slowly. “Mom got caught in the flames. She was going to die. So the hospital brought in an angel to heal her.” He swallowed hard. He wondered what Samael would think of the story, but a look at the man’s face showed that he was not passing judgment. “He just seemed so human. I mean, we all get told that angels don’t have minds, but he looked like he did. He looked scared. And when the doctor put his hand on her and he took on her burns…” Dean gulped. “He screamed,” he said finally. “He screamed, and it was like I was watching my mom burn all over again. He just seemed so hurt. And the doctors promised me that he wasn’t actually in pain, but he clearly was. I told the doctor she was hurting him, but they get that stuff from kids all the time, so she didn’t listen. But then, when they took him away, he looked at me, and I swear he said something, or mouthed something.” Dean shrugged. “Most kids who see something like that forget. I didn’t.”

Samael set his coffee mug down. Somehow, he had managed to drain nearly the entire cup during Dean’s speech. “That was brave of you,” he said quietly. “It must have been hard for you to believe that what you saw was real even though your entire culture told you that you were wrong. I have great respect for you, Dean.”

Dean laughed mirthlessly. “Yeah, well, respect me after the angels are freed. Until then, it’s just a work in progress.”

“No, it’s brave,” Samael argued. “You have already accomplished great things. You have already made humanity at large pay attention and think about the—I do not know the word,” he said, frustrated. “The _QAAL_  of the angels.”

“I think I get what you mean.” Dean sighed. “Anyone could have done that. I’m just glad it’s been done.”

“So am I,” Samael said seriously.

The soft tapping of feet made Dean look up. Gabriel stood in the entryway, dressed in the same sort of skirt as Samael, though without the hair to hide his body. “Couldn’t help but overhear you guys,” he said, pulling out a third chair and sitting down. “I have a question for you, Dean. Do you remember what the angel who healed your mother looked like?”

Dean frowned, dredging up the memories from the depths of his mind. “His wings were brown, and his eyes were golden,” he said slowly. “And he looked unbelievably sad.”

Gabriel nodded. “See, all the years I was in the hospitals, exactly three humans looked at me as though they really saw me, and all of them were children. I remember them all because of how unusual it was.” He regarded Dean seriously. “One of them was this freckle-faced kid with green eyes who wouldn’t stop crying because his mother was burned and dying before his eyes.”

Dean blinked, staring at Gabriel with new eyes. Now that the man had brought up the possibility—

The angel had been short, though to Dean, he had seemed a giant. His thin face had looked as though he would laugh easily, until it was contorted with pain. Now that the possibility had been brought up, Dean wondered how he had not seen it before. “You’re the angel who healed my mother,” he whispered, swallowing hard. “Gabriel, I—I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, kiddo.” Gabriel fixed him with a serious look. “I don’t regret healing your mother, because she produced you, and you’re doing a world of good. Hell, I’d do it again of my own volition. I can’t say that much for most other people I’ve healed. Does that make sense?”

Dean nodded. Gabriel sighed. “I don’t want to put a damper on the good mood here. I just figured you had the right to know.” He grinned. “Congratulations to me, I got you thinking about angel’s rights.

Dean smiled tightly. “I suppose so,” he said.

“Believe me, kid, that makes all the pain I suffered worthwhile—because this isn’t just about me. If I inspired you to start working towards freeing a huge population of angels, then at least my time in the hospitals had meaning.” Gabriel shrugged. “I think I deserve a cup of coffee for that. I’ve never tried it, but it always smelled great.”

“Of course,” Dean said, standing quickly. “I’d like another cup myself. Samael?”

“Please,” Samael said fervently. “This is very good.”

Dean set the coffee maker to producing three more cups and sat back down while the drink brewed. “So…” he began, unsure of what to say. Sitting in silence seemed awkward, but he was desperately curious about Samael and Gabriel. He just didn’t know where to begin.

“Something on your mind?” Gabriel asked.

“A lot of things,” Dean said, running a hand through his hair. “I just can’t think of them.”

Gabriel nodded. “Hey, you’ve had your world pretty well turned around today. I’d guess this has all been pretty overwhelming.”

Dean shrugged. “A bit,” he said. Gabriel raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Okay, more than a bit,” he admitted.

“Oh, good. I’d be worried if you were that unflappable.”

Dean snorted. “There’s so much I want to know, I don’t even know where to start,” he said finally. “And I don’t want to keep you guys up.”

“I do not know if I will be able to sleep tonight, so do not worry about me,” Samael said reassuringly.

“I’m with Sasquatch.” Gabriel grinned as Samael glanced at him in confusion. “It’s a nickname a lot of the nurses gave to a particularly huge janitor. I’m stealing it for you.”

Samael shook his head. “I see,” he said, clearly still not comprehending. He turned his gaze back to Dean. “Like I said, one reason I am here is to answer questions. You can ask anything.”

“How did the angels manage to hide from humans?” Dean asked quickly, before he could stop himself. “I mean… Obviously some of us found some of you, but we wouldn’t have kept you guys captive if people knew you were out there in your own societies. I think we wouldn’t have, at least. I… I’m rambling. I’ll shut up now.”

Samael sighed. “One of the jobs of the Watchkeepers is to warn the tribe if humans are approaching,” he said quietly. “Most of the time, we are able to move to an alternate location before we are discovered.”

“Most of the time?”

Samael winced. “You have to understand, Dean,” he murmured. “Humans have been terrorizing us for more than a century. We could not let those who found us go back and tell of the existence of the tribes.”

Dean swallowed hard. “So, you kill the people who discover you?” he asked, his voice small and tinny in his ears.

“Painlessly, with mercy.” Samael’s voice had taken on a pleading quality. “None of us relish it, but we’re trying to survive. We’re just defending our home.”

“It’s okay,” Dean said quickly. “I get it, I do. Probably best not to bring that one up before Parliament, though.”

Samael frowned, but nodded. Dean rose to refill his and Samael’s mugs, and to pour Gabriel a cup of coffee. He sat back down, hesitating before he asked his next question. “Gabriel, how did you escape the hospitals?” he queried, curious. He hoped that it would not bring up too many painful memories for the angel.

Gabriel grimaced. “Honestly, it was something I should have done sooner,” he said. “I watched the guards long enough to learn their patterns, and I had snagged a hairpin from one of the patients. Taught myself how to pick locks through the bars, and let myself out during one of the guard’s shift changes.”

Dean whistled, impressed. “Gotta give you props for that. Then what, you just snuck out of the hospital?”

“And never looked back.” Gabriel took a long drink of coffee, screwing up his face at the bitter taste. “Don’t get what you guys see in this,” he complained. “And it smelled so good, too. Such a waste. Want mine, Samael?”

Samael grinned and grabbed Gabriel’s mug, foreign words rolling off his tongue. Gabriel said something that sounded like a retort, but returned the man’s grin. Unbidden, a stab of longing shot through Dean’s chest. Samael and Gabriel had such an easy dynamic—almost like storybook brothers. He wondered if he would have had such a relationship with his own brother.

“So what now?” Gabriel asked. “Apart from chatting over coffee. How long will it be before your government meets again?”

Dean shrugged. “They meet basically every day, most of the year. Weekends off, and religious politicians can take off for their holidays, but the rest of the time it’s a full-time job.”

“Huh.” Gabriel sounded thoughtful. “Angel councils meet three times per season for Judgment Day, but that’s it. I guess there’s a lot more of you than us, though.”

Dean offered a small smile. “Ellen should have submitted a petition for an audience this evening. It’ll take a bit to go through the bureaucracy, but I’m not sure how long exactly. Direct dealings with the government were never my strong suit.”

Gabriel nodded. “Nah, you seem like more of a hands-on guy. Doesn’t surprise me.”

They sat in silence for a while as Dean and Samael finished their coffee. “Well, I should probably check my coms. I’ve been getting a lot of messages from PAP since we released that footage,” Dean said finally, his back crackling as he stretched. “Feel free to raid my fridge and make more coffee. It should be pretty easy to figure out the machine.”

Samael smiled at him. “Thank you, Dean,” he said, clasping his hands together. Dean returned the smile and left the room, stopping by the bedroom to grab his coms before heading to the living room.

Most of the messages on his text com were interchangeable—missives from PAP members congratulating him, offering him protection if needed, or demanding more information. One message, however, stood out from the others. Dean frowned, hovering over the touchpad. Why the hell would Meg contact him?

**_Call me when you get this. I don’t care what time it is. You owe me this much, Winchester._ **

After a moment’s hesitation, Dean grabbed his vidcom and scrolled through his contacts for Meg Masters. He should have deleted all his workplace contacts; he would have to remember to do that. For now, best to see what his former boss wanted. Probably wanted to chew him out again for betraying the company. That was fine; Dean would love another excuse to throw what he had done in her face.

After a moment’s wait for the coms to connect, Meg’s image popped up in hazy holographic form. Dean felt a savage satisfaction in having woken her up; her eyes were blurry with sleep, her curly brown hair a wild mess around her face. “What do you want from me, Meg?” he demanded, leaning back easily on the couch.

“Did you take 35712?” Meg’s voice was slow, sleep-drunk and groggy. “Because if you did, you’re even stupider than I thought.”

What the hell was she on about? “You saw me leaving the premises. Did it look like I had Castiel stuffed in a backpack?” Dean demanded irritably. Her use of the angel’s serial number grated—she had seen the footage. She knew damn well the angel had a name.

“Yeah, well, someone took him. He’s gone, Winchester. If you didn’t take him, who did?”

Dean sat up straight. “What do you mean, he’s gone?” he demanded.

Meg rolled her eyes. “Government sent their secret popo in to take out angels to the camps until public opinion can settle down. Nice job there, by the way. I told you something like that would happen. Anyways, they came in to take 35712, and his cage was empty. Well, empty except for a jacket—your jacket. What am I supposed to think?”

Cold fear prickled at Dean as he took in the meaning of her words. “Like I said, I didn’t take him. Believe me, I’d have let him out if I could, but I didn’t.”

Meg scowled. “You lying to me, Winchester?” she demanded irritably. “Because I’ve got the government on my ass, and I really don’t fancy a trip to jail over your shenanigans. I need answers here. Where is my angel?”

“He’s not your angel, and I don’t know,” Dean snapped angrily. “Why don’t you start by questioning your twisted little staff?”

“Oh, trust me, they’re next in line, especially since half of them didn’t show up to work, or left early.” Meg yawned, her jaw cracking audibly. “I’ve got an eye on you, Winchester. Public opinion or not, that angel is government property. If you took him, that’s at least a twenty year stint in prison.”

“How many times do I have to tell you I didn’t take him before it sinks in to your thick skull?” Dean demanded.

“And I’m supposed to believe you, since you were so honest during your interview. Nice lie about your old boss, by the way.” Meg rolled her eyes again. “You’d better hope we find that angel, or it’s coming out of your ass.”

“Fuck you, Masters,” Dean snarled. “You’d better hope you don’t find Castiel, because if I find out you hurt him again, I’ll rip you apart.”

“That a threat, Winchester?”

“It’s a promise,” Dean snapped. “Don’t ever contact me again.” He ended the call angrily and threw his vid com to the other side of the couch, where it landed gently.

“Dean?” Samael stood in the entryway, watching him with concern. “What is going on?”

“It’s Castiel,” Dean replied grimly, rubbing his eyes. “He’s missing.”


	9. Roots

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Weeks pass as Samael waits impatiently to be called before humanity's World Parliament. When Dean's parents come by the house unexpectedly, Samael is forced to face his past, and questions his place in the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am officially out of pre-written chapters, so updates will slow. Sorry, guys. I'll still try to keep things fairly speedy, but real life is a cold-hearted bitch, so I can just hope for the best.
> 
> Emotions and feelings. This chapter has a lot of them.

_“Missing?”_ Samael asked, confused. The look on Dean’s face suggested that the man did not think Castiel’s absence meant anything good. _“Gabriel said that the angels are well guarded. Do you think he escaped?”_

Dean shook his head. _“Can’t see how he could have. I wish I could think that, but the odds are that someone took him. Damnit!”_ The man pounded his fist against the wall. _“I should have sneaked him out when I left after taking that video!”_

Gabriel came up behind Samael, a warm, calming presence. _“Would anyone else have taken him?”_ he asked, leaning against Samael’s shoulder, placing a calming hand on his side.

Dean shrugged. _“I don’t know,”_ he said honestly. _“Guy who was working with him—shit, torturing him, let’s be honest—maybe? He seemed like a creep.”_

“This is serious,” Gabriel muttered to Samael. “I don’t know if he’d be able to take care of himself even if he did get away. And you’re right—humans guard the angels like we’re gold. If someone took him, I doubt the meant well by it.”

Samael opened his mouth to respond, then realized Dean was looking at them curiously. “Maybe we should speak _English_ , so our host can understand us?” he suggested.

“Right,” Gabriel said. _“Samael and I have to prepare to meet with your government, but if you want to look for Castiel, we’ll understand if you’re not around much to help. Especially since you said government’s not your strong point.”_

_“No, I… shit.”_ Dean groaned, slumping forward. _“I wouldn’t even know where to start looking for him.”_

_“You said that the man who tortured him might have taken him?”_ Samael offered carefully. _“Why not begin there?”_

Dean grimaced. _“That’s just a theory. If I got caught hunting him down and breaking into his house to look, I’d get arrested.”_

_“But you are looking for a missing person,”_ Samael argued, confused. _“Why is this a bad thing?”_

_“Human law gives us some privacy rights. You can’t just go into someone’s house without permission.”_

Privacy was one thing, but humans valued it over the safety of missing persons? Samael shook his head. Humans were strange.

Gabriel sighed. _“Okay. How about this. When Samael and I have talked to your government, regardless of the outcome, we’ll stay and help you search for Castiel. We are not bound by your laws, and if caught can pretend we didn’t know.”_

Dean buried his face in his hands. _“Yeah,”_ he muttered. _“Guess there’s not much else we can do.”_

0o0o0o0o0

After weeks of travel, it was nice to have a set place to stay. Ellen’s daughter, Jo, popped by the day after Samael’s arrival, set to inform Dean and the newcomers that their request for an audience with the human World _Parliament_ had been submitted to the first level of bureaucracy. The girl, barely an adult by human standards, had been immediately smitten with Samael and fascinated by Gabriel. As the days passed and members of Dean’s organization came through the house, Samael and Gabriel became accustomed to telling their stories. Awe and respect seemed to be the general sentiment that angel rights activists held for Gabriel. Towards Samael, emotions ranged from the same respect to a frankly insulting level of pity.

“You’d think I wanted to be raised by humans, the way they react when they found out I was taken as a child,” Samael had grumbled to Gabriel after a particularly trying visit. The man in question, leader of PAP’s South Asian regional membership, had treated Sam like a traumatized child, offering literature on something called _Stockholm’s Syndrome_ and pledging to try to locate Samael’s family as soon as the angels had been freed.

“They don’t understand,” Gabriel had replied with a shrug. “Can you blame them? I’ll bet that humans who take children are downright nasty.”

Samael would not argue with that. Still, the majority of the humans who passed through the house were pleasant, and Samael found himself warming to humanity as a whole. Perhaps they were not so bad.

Days turned into weeks, and Samael grew restless. How long would it take before they could meet with this human council? Surely it couldn’t take this long for a simple request to reach _Parliament._ If angels worked this slowly, they would never get anything done!

At least he had Dean and Gabriel around to keep him from going insane.

0o0o0o0o0

If he was keeping track of the days correctly, the Council of Three would be meeting in judgment for the second time since he and Gabriel had set out for human society on the very day Samael’s world turned on its head.

He sat with Dean and Gabriel in the living room, watching what Dean had termed _trash TV_ when they were interrupted by the sound of a key turning in the lock. _“Shit!”_ Dean cursed, leaping to his feet. _“Haven’t they heard of calling ahead?”_

_“Dean?”_ A low voice wafted into the living room, slightly muffled by the walls. _“Your mother and I haven’t heard from you in weeks. Hope you don’t mind us stopping by.”_

_“Stay here,”_ Dean muttered, casting a glance at Samael and Gabriel, both frozen in place, his bare feet carrying him swiftly out of the room. _“Mom! Dad! What are you doing here?”_

“This is either very good or very bad,” Gabriel murmured, wrapping a small, warm hand around Samael’s forearm—whether to reassure Samael or himself, it was not clear. “It’d be nice to get some idea of what ordinary humans think of angels now that some of the ruckus has died down. Right?”

A quick glance his ordinarily self-assured companion made Samael’s heart sink. Underneath his cocky demeanor, there was real fear in Gabriel’s eyes. Samael reached out with his free hand and laid it over Gabriel’s, giving him a reassuring squeeze.

“Dean’s said that they aren’t explicitly anti-angel,” he murmured, rubbing his fingers over the back of Gabriel’s palm. “Even if they were, they’re his parents. Surely they wouldn’t do anything while we’re in his house.”

“That’s true.” Gabriel offered Samael a small smile, worry still evident in his bright eyes, but he relaxed noticeably. Samael reluctantly pulled his hand away, his fingers somewhat colder for the lack of contact.

“You’re not at the hospital. They won’t hurt you,” Samael assured the angel, returning his smile with a tiny one of his own.

_“Mom—Dad, wait, can we talk in the kitchen? I’ve sort of got visitors in the living room.”_ Samael tensed slightly at Dean’s words, but he knew they had to get used to meeting humans who were not associated with PAP. Frankly, he should be surprised that Ellen had not called them before reporters by now.

_“And what, they’re so unsavory you don’t want them to meet your parents?”_ Dean’s father’s low rumble was markedly closer; Samael’s head shot up as the man tromped into the room and stopped short, his eyes widening as he caught sight of Samael and Gabriel.

_“It’s not that, Dad, it’s just—damnit.”_ Dean nearly collided with his father, coming to a halt directly behind him. _“So, um, I guess that’s that. Dad, this is Samael and Gabriel.”_

Dean’s father swallowed hard, not taking his eyes off the interlopers in his son’s house. His eyes seemed to slide past Gabriel, coming to a rest directly on Samael. His intense scrutiny was uncomfortable; Samael squirmed awkwardly, clasping his hands in front of him.

_“Sammy?”_ Dean’s mother pushed past the two men, long strides carrying her across the room. Samael rose quickly, instinctively shielding Gabriel with his body, but the woman hardly seemed to notice. She stopped directly in front of Samael, raising a shaking hand to cup his face. Samael flinched, but did not pull away. Perhaps this was a human greeting he was not familiar with? The woman gulped, dropping her hand, but she did not back away. _“Sammy, is it—is it really you?”_

_“Mom?”_ Dean walked forward and laid a gentle hand on his mother’s shoulder. _“What are you doing?”_

The woman whirled around to stare at Dean, her eyes huge and wounded. _“How long has he been here?”_ she demanded angrily. _“Dean! How long has your brother been here?”_

_“Brother? Mom, that’s—he’s not my brother.”_ Dean’s adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard, an expression of pain washing over his face.

_“I know my own child when I see him!”_ Dean’s mother threw a look at her husband. _“Tell him, John!”_

Dean’s father shook, staggering to the couch. _“He does look like Sam, but—Mary, he’s too young to be him,”_ the man said, sighing heavily. _“He’s much too young. Sammy would be in his twenties.”_

Samael took a step back, his head spinning. “Gabriel, what are they saying?” he asked, the words catching in his throat. Surely he was translating everything wrong. _Brother_ must be one of those words with multiple meanings.

Gabriel shook his head, his eyes huge. “Exactly what it sounds like, Samael,” he answered, pushing himself to his feet, his wings flaring uneasily. “Sounds like this lady thinks you’re her son.”

Samael gulped. That was impossible. Humanity was vast, and humans were many—the odds of running into his birth family were nearly nonexistent. Dean’s mother had to be mistaken—tragically mistaken, but wrong nonetheless.

The woman dug around in her pocket and pulled out a thick cloth bundle, clasped with a zipper. _“Here,”_ she said, gritting her teeth and digging out a worn, wrinkled piece of paper. _“Tell me this isn’t Sammy.”_ She whirled around, bringing the paper up in front of Samael’s face. Samael stumbled back, the windowsill digging into his spine as he hit the wall. _“Do you remember? Sammy, do you remember us?”_

It was a picture of sorts, painfully realistic in its depiction of four humans. Dean’s parents appeared in sharp focus on the paper, many springs younger than they were now. Samael estimated that if they were angels, approximately 55 springs would have passed since the picture was made, but it was harder to tell with humans. Of the two small children depicted, the serious-faced boy with freckles was clearly Dean. He had not changed so much in the passing springs, despite having grown tall and broad, filling into his skin. But the other child…

He looked like a fledgling of perhaps fifteen springs, all chubby limbs and a round face, split with a wide, innocent grin that wrenched at Samael’s heart. He frowned, leaning forward to examine the picture; the child shared his hazel eyes and brown hair. Samael gulped, looking from the picture to Dean’s mother, her eyes huge and desperate as she stared at him. _“You think that I am the same small child?”_ he asked slowly, the words coming out thick and muddled. He inhaled sharply as the woman nodded.

_“Mom, put the picture away.”_ Samael had never heard so much emotion in Dean’s voice as now; his eyes were wide and pleading. _“Please put it back.”_

Dean’s mother glared at him. _“How long has he been here?”_ she demanded.

_“A bit over a month, but—”_

Dean’s mother turned away, her attention cutting from her son to Samael. _“I’m sorry if I startled you,”_ she said, her voice quavering. She seemed to be on the verge of tears. _“You don’t remember me, do you?”_

Samael shook his head, reaching instinctively for Gabriel. A soft hand closed over his own, and Gabriel gave a reassuring squeeze. “It’s not impossible,” he murmured, stepping forward until his chest was pressed against Samael’s back. “You should talk to her. She might be your mother.”

Samael flinched. “No, it is impossible. It is! Of all humanity, what are the odds I would run into my birth family?”

“Then figure it out so you can let her down gently.” Gabriel released his hand and stepped forward. _“I think this is a bit overwhelming for everyone,”_ he said, remarkably calm despite being faced with strange humans. _“Could you give him some room?”_

The woman blinked, seeming to see Gabriel for the first time. _“I—yes. Of course.”_ She backed up quickly, surveying the two with bright, watery eyes. _“I’m sorry.”_

Dean stepped forward, guiding his mother to the couch. She sat, allowing her husband and son to flank her, each gripping one of her hands. Samael exhaled, relieved for the space, and sank back to his knees. After a short pause, Gabriel settled on the ground as well, placing a steadying hand on the small of Samael’s back.

_“What—”_ the words died in Samael’s throat. Speaking English would be too difficult right now. “Gabriel, can you ask her why she thinks I’m her son?”

Gabriel raised an eyebrow. “What, want me to play translator?” Samael nodded, mentally begging the Creator that Gabriel would agree. “Fine, but don’t make a habit out of it. Your _English_ could still use some work, kiddo.” He faced the humans; if he were any further away, Samael might have missed the shudder that ran through his wings. _“He wants to know why you think he’s your son.”_

Dean’s mother swallowed hard. _“Mother’s instinct. He looks just like our Sam—I, I just know it’s him. Can you ask him how old he is?”_

_“He can answer that himself, you know,”_ Gabriel replied gently. _“He does speak English.”_ He nudged Samael with an elbow. “Come on, you can say that much. You followed what she said, right?”

Followed it? Yes, Samael could follow every word, but that did not mean he had to believe them. _“I am twenty-four sp—years. Twenty-four years.”_

The color drained from Dean’s parents’ faces nearly in unison. _“That’s how old Sammy would be,”_ Dean’s father whispered, gripping his wife’s hand. He swallowed hard, fixing Samael with set, unreadable eyes. _“What’s your name?”_ he asked softly. _“Dean mentioned it but I—the resemblance, I hardly heard.”_

_“I am Samael.”_ And how close Samael was to Sammy. The similarity was not lost on Dean’s parents; his father inhaled sharply, and his mother sagged against the back of the couch. Overwhelmed, Samael turned his gaze to Dean. His host was staring at him, his brow furrowed as though he was working through the new information. Samael gulped and looked down. The air seemed oppressively heavy, the walls of the large room too confining. Longing shot through his chest; he wanted Lucifer to burst through the door, to gather him up in his arms like a child and assure him that he was all the family Samael would ever need. All the thought and preparation Samael had put into his journey, but he had never imagined this.

_“Samael?”_ Dean’s voice was soothing, a rock of familiarity to which Samael could cling. He tore his eyes from the worn carpeting, taking comfort in the familiar green of his host. _“I don’t know—I mean, I was too young when my brother was taken to be sure—but, I don’t know. There might be a chance you’re him. Do you think you’d be okay with telling my parents what you remember before the angels?”_

What did he remember of his early childhood? It was all hazy, a distant, faded memory, blurred and vague and foreign, like trying to remember a long-buried bedtime story. _“I had two parents and an older brother, I think,”_ he said slowly, leaning back into Gabriel’s hand. _“They were nice. It was a warm feeling. I—”_ he frowned, trying to remember something concrete, something that would give evidence one way or another, but it was like trying to catch a deer with bare hands through crackly underbrush. Nothing significant stood out.  _“There was a vehicle—a ground car, I think you call it. I had small model humans, and I pushed one into a crevice in the inside. I never could pull it out.”_

Dean’s father swallowed hard. _“It’s still there,”_ he said quietly, his voice shaking. A single tear slid down Dean’s mother’s cheek. _“I gave that car to Dean when he got his ground license. Never could get the damn thing out.”_

He needed to get out of the room, away from these strangers and their emotions and Dean, white and shaking and clinging to his mother. Samael rose, his limbs heavy and disconnected. “I need air,” he muttered, not caring that the humans in the room would not understand him. “I need to go.”

“Samael—”

“Don’t!” Samael knocked Gabriel’s hand away before the angel could grab him. “Don’t touch me. Just—a minute, I need a minute.” Acutely aware of the four sets of eyes that followed him, he sprinted from the room, covering the short distance from the hall to the front door, and was outside before he had even realized that he was leaving the house.

The mountains called to him, so distant and far away, promising home and comfort and the familiarity of Lucifer’s set. Samael shuddered, craning his neck, but tall, ugly buildings blocked the horizon, obscuring any glimpse he could have caught of his homeland. Emotions whirled through his chest—grief and longing and homesickness, all battling for dominance over the tight, oppressive ache in his lungs. Had he felt this way when the angels had taken him? Had he missed Dean’s parents—his parents—as much as he missed Lucifer now?

It was supposed to be simple. He was supposed to appear before the human government as a nominal member of their race, and then he was supposed to return home to the angels and forget that he was, for all intents and purposes, a different species. What if Dean’s family wanted him to stay? What if they tried to use his past to bind him to humanity—worse, what if they succeeded? The ugly city, with its noise and grime and undercurrent of menace—was he meant to be here?

“Samael.” He flinched as a hand came down on his shoulder, too large and heavy to be Gabriel’s. “Please come in.” Enochian sounded wrong on Dean’s tongue; Samael wondered how Dean even knew the words. Gabriel must have told him what to say. _“We won’t crowd you,”_ Dean promised, switching to _English,“we just want to talk. And if you’re not up to that, we’ll understand—hell, if you want to hole up in your room, that’s fine. Please just come in. You’re scaring Gabriel.”_

Samael swallowed hard. _“I want to go home,”_ he whispered, staring at the blocked skyline with longing. _“I do not want to be tied here.”_

_“We’re not going to make you stay.”_ Dean’s words were warm, heavy with emotion, grounding Samael with their assurance. _“No one’s going to make you stay here. We just—Sammy, please come inside.”_

_Sammy._ It was familiar and foreign all at once. Samael swallowed hard, closing his eyes before treacherous tears could fall. _“I did not want to know who they were. Who you were.”_

_“I know.”_ Gently, as though handling a spooked animal, Dean guided Samael back into the house. _“I know. I’m so sorry, Samael.”_

The house meant stares and emotion and uncomfortable scrutiny, but it was better than the destroyed horizon and overwhelming press of humanity. Samael allowed Dean to lead him back to the cushions on the floor, allowed Gabriel to embrace him and murmur meaningless reassurances in his ears. Samael leaned into the touch, reaching out and gripping Gabriel with desperate hands, allowing silken feathers to slide through his fingers, solid and real and so reminiscent of Lucifer’s. His own bare back felt like a brand, a symbol of his lack of place in the world. Neither angel nor human, how could he go back to the tribe with the solid proof sitting in his mind that he had been born into the world a member of a desperate, corrupted race?

But how could he stay?


	10. Hope for Freedom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel is taken from Alastair and Azazel by a woman named Meg, who brings him to the recently reformed camps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What is homework when I have fanfiction to write? Hopefully you guys enjoy this chapter. I had not exactly planned to have Castiel saved from Alastair and Azazel so soon, but writing gratuitous torture scenes seemed like overkill, and this fell together quite nicely, in my opinion. Let me know your thoughts in the comments!

Castiel did not know how much time had passed, but the days melded together in an eternity of anguish. Alastair and Azazel came in frequently to test out Azazel’s torture implements, but as time wore on, his tormenters stopped by the room less and less frequently. In their place, a steady trickle of sick and injured humans came through, all eager to make use of his healing abilities. Some said nothing, some apologized to him, but in the end, it did not matter to Castiel. They were all the same—humans who would use him, with no real care for his well-being.

He just wanted it all to end.

There was no end in sight, however. Not once had Azazel or Alastair unfastened him from the bed, effectively denying him the chance to end his life. Forced to lie motionless, helpless and broken in puddles of his own sweat and blood and waste, Castiel could feel the last vestiges of sanity slipping from his grasp. Perhaps it was for the best. If he went insane, maybe he would be able to distance himself from his situation.

Voices sounded outside the room, which was hardly an unusual occurrence. What was strange was the increasing volume and tension; blearily, Castiel turned his head towards the door.

“—Think you can run off with government property and no one’s going to notice?”

“Damnit Masters, you weren’t going to get any more use out of him—”

“So you bring the government down on my ass? Hell no. I’d say a free healing’s the minimum you owe me.”

The door swung open and Alastair stormed in, his eyes dark with rage. “You want to waste his abilities on a broken arm? Fine. I’m calling us even after this.”

“Well, I’m not.” The woman who followed Alastair into the room smiled sweetly at Castiel, her round cheeks dimpling with the expression. “Hi there, Clarence. Nice to see this is where you’ve gotten off to.”

Castiel did not respond, electing instead to turn his head away. A broken arm, Alastair had said. He could live with healing a broken arm. Most of the people who sought out Alastair’s and Azazel’s help—his services—did not come in for anything less than delirious fevers and missing limbs. He knew his captors charged exorbitant fees for his use; the people who came to him were truly desperate.

The woman knelt beside him, pressing her arm against his bound hand. “Get a move on,” she ordered, her eyes raking across his body.

There was nothing wrong with her arm. Castiel frowned, not comprehending. The woman glared at him. “Fake it,” she hissed quietly, pressing her arm firmly against his palm.

Castiel closed his eyes and screwed up his face, imagining all the pain he had endured. The woman lifted her arm and turned to face Alastair. “There, now, was that so much to ask?” she inquired sweetly.

“Yes,” Alastair snapped angrily. “I don’t like giving away my services for free. Are you done here?”

“Not quite.” The woman laid a firm hand on Castiel’s wing; he flinched, drawing the limb in towards his body instinctively. “See, there’s a minor problem here. Government’s still on my case about stolen goods and lost property, and that’s not going to change unless I provide them with a missing angel.” Castiel’s eyes flew open as a loud clicking sound cracked through his ears. The woman stood calmly, leveling a stun gun at Alastair. “Give me the angel and I won’t have to shoot you.”

Alastair gasped, his eyes narrowing in disbelief. “Girly, you wouldn’t dare,” he growled, his hand flying to his hip. He drew out his own gun, a nasty mechanism that Castiel knew the effects of all too well. Alastair’s gun didn’t just stun; its shock was more than enough to kill any human.

The woman ducked as she fired, her bolt catching Alastair in the leg. He stumbled, his leg numb and useless, firing wildly. A jolt of energy shot through Castiel’s chest; he screamed as electricity raced through his body, frying his cells almost more quickly than new ones could regenerate. The woman fired once, twice more, and Alastair dropped, unconscious.

“Let’s get you out of here before Azazel decides to come poking around,” she said, pushing herself to her feet and staggering over to Castiel’s bed. Her hands flew across the restraints, freeing Castiel’s limbs for the first time in weeks. “First order of events after I get you out of here is a shower,” she muttered, heaving one of Castiel’s arms around her shoulders and pulling him to his feet. Castiel stumbled as she half dragged him to the door, his aching limbs protesting their movements. The woman ignored his struggles, dragging him out of the house and into the bright, dry sunlight.

Castiel squinted, his eyes watering in the glare. The woman pushed him quickly into the back of a large air car, designed for cargo transports from the look of it. “Get us to the base, Crowley,” she said, speaking into a tiny black device on her wrist. “Target secured. I want government agents at the house yesterday, got it?”

“Always a pleasure, Meg.” The voice that crackled from her wrist piece was crisp and cold, all business. Castiel shook his head, drawing his limbs into his chest and folding his wings protectively around himself. As relieved as he was to be away from Alastair and Azazel, new humans were always a bad thing.

“Hey, angel boy.” Castiel jumped as the woman laid a hand over his uppermost wing joint. “Quit freaking out. Government’s put a halt to all medical and testing use of you guys. We couldn’t hurt you even if we wanted to.”

Castiel shivered, burying his face in his knees. The woman sighed, exasperated. “Come on, we’re getting you to the camps. Can’t have government property running amok in unauthorized hands until they get this angel rights business sorted out.”

The camps? Castiel’s head shot up; he scrambled to his feet, flaring his wings in a desperate attempt to scare the woman off. Ragged and torn as they were, he doubted they would be very effective; indeed, the woman watched him calmly, not intimidated. “Let me out,” he demanded, his voice shaking. “No camps. No camps!”

“Jesus, chill!” the woman snapped, folding her arms across her chest. “Training’s come to a halt ever since Winchester broadcasted that video. The media’s in a frenzy, and there’ve been too many reporters sneaking around for the breakers to keep up their methods. What part of 'we’re not going to hurt you' aren’t you getting?”

Perhaps it was the part where Dean had said the exact same thing, and only a day later he had been taken by Alastair. Castiel trembled, his exhausted limbs screaming from the effort it took to remain on his feet. “No camps,” he repeated, leaning against the side of the air car for support.

The woman scowled. “We haven’t got anything else to do with you, kiddo,” she informed him coolly. “Government hasn’t authorized turning you guys over to PAP, the way they keep screaming for. And I’m not going to jail just because you’ve got your panties in a twist over the idea of going to one of the camps, all right? Damn, they’re not even getting pissy with you guys for talking and acting out anymore.” She grinned, a dark, discomforting leer. “Pretend it’s a summer camp. Arts and crafts, swimming, and awful bunk beds.”

Castiel didn’t know what she was talking about, but it did little to soothe him. “I will not go back to the camps,” he said finally. “I will die first.”

The woman rolled her eyes. “Do me a favor and give them a chance before you get all suicidal on me,” she demanded. “Look, angel boy, I’ll be with you the whole time. Part of the reason I’m not in prison right now is because I quit my old job to keep an eye on you nut cases, making sure you don’t off yourselves and that the guards don’t get too handsy, okay? You’re in a lot more danger out there than with us. Plenty of people are still pissed that the angels were yanked from the hospitals.”

She sounded sincere, but Dean had always sounded sincere as well. Castiel allowed his legs to give way, sinking to the ground in defeat. He’d make a break for it when the car landed. Escape was a long shot, but it was more likely that he would be killed straight away for trying it than that the guards would make an effort to keep him alive. Angels were easy to replace, after all.

The air car touched down a few minutes later, and the woman grabbed his hand. “I know what you’re thinking, and my advice is don’t. Don’t even try to get away. See, if you did, I’d have to hunt you down, and that would be a pain in the ass for all of us. So here’s how this is going to work. I’m going to check you in with the guards, the government can quit threatening me with prison, and then I’m going to get you cleaned up and let you out with the other angels. Sound like a plan?”

Castiel did not answer, choosing to simply glare at his newest captor. The woman smiled and pressed the internal door lock, allowing the hatch to slide open. She led Castiel out of the car, tugging insistently at his hand.

Castiel gulped as he faced the large, imposing brick wall, stretching twenty feet into the air and roped off across the top with lengths of electicity-enforced barbed wire, a deterrent to any angels who might take it upon themselves to try flying. Meg pulled him along, marching towards the heavily guarded gate. “Got 35712 here. My former employee Alastair had stolen him. You guys got people on their way?”

“Yes ma’am,” one of the guards rumbled, barely tossing a glance in Castiel’s direction. “You want him in your sector?”

“You might want to take up a side job as a mind reader, Gordon,” the woman snarked. “I hear they’re paying damn well for that these days, with all the pseudo-psychics coming out of the woodwork who swear they knew all along that angels are sentient.”

The guard rolled his eyes and waved him through. Castiel flattened his wings against his back and followed submissively, his heart pounding with dread. The creak of gate hinges behind him felt like the closing of a coffin, a loud declaration of pain and punishment to come.

The first chance he got, he would rush a guard. They would be forced to take him down then. Perhaps it was a blessing that he was being taken back to the camps. Now that he was here, he had a better chance at dying than he would have ever had tied to a bed in Alastair’s possession.

0o0o0o0o0

His captor—Meg, he surmised—was true to her word, dragging him immediately off to the showers. To Castiel’s surprise, she did not chain him in place and hose him down. Instead, she shoved him in the direction of the stalls, tossing a worn, faded towel at him. “I’m not washing you,” she explained, raising an eyebrow when he looked at her with confusion. “I’m going to get you some clothes while you get cleaned up. You smell like a sewer, and you’re not wandering around naked. Don’t want some reporter to get an eyeful.”

Castiel did not reply. He ducked into one of the stalls and fumbled the water on, allowing the lukewarm spray to pound against his filthy skin and ragged wings. He ached where Alastair had pasted over his ripped out feathers. Tentatively, he peeled at the dried paste with ragged fingernails, moaning in relief when the substance came off in easy sheets. His feathers, which had been trapped and throbbing beneath his skin, pushed through the large, irritated feather follicles, coming out sleek and shiny where they filled in the gaps in his wings. Castiel turned his attention to the filth and sweat that covered his body, scrubbing at his flesh with unscented soap until the last vestiges of blood and waste swirled down the drain. His wings hung heavy and waterlogged, pulling at his back, but they would dry in time. Feeling marginally better for being clean, Castiel turned off the tap and stepped out of the stall, toweling off quickly and sliding into the clothes that Meg had left for him. After years of nudity, cloth felt strange against his skin, rougher and more coarse than he had remembered. The low back of the shirt left just enough room for his wings, but the pants hung loosely about his thin hips. Alastair had not seen the point in feeding him more than necessary, and Castiel was sure that he looked like little more than a skeleton.

“You done?” Meg poked her head into the room, grinning at Castiel. “Awesome. Come on, let’s get you out with the others.”

This was what Castiel had been dreading. He swallowed his protests and followed her meekly, his eyes trained upon the ground. He would be lucky if she just took him to the cages.

Meg led Castiel down the hall and out into a wide, open courtyard. The last time Castiel had been in the camps, the courtyard had been a place for off-duty guards to lounge about and to take angels to task for particularly grievous infractions. Castiel shuddered nervously, his eyes falling upon the whipping post and chopping block, but the structures that had haunted his nightmares since he was fifteen years old were roped off with a heavy length of electrified chain, seemingly unusable. Around the courtyard, uneasy groups of angels milled, tightly packed together and chattering quietly under the watchful eyes of unarmed humans. It was surreal; Castiel rubbed his eyes, wondering when reality would knock the image away.

“Go on then,” Meg said, pushing Castiel slightly. “They think you’re a hero. Go forth and chat. Socialize. Let them kiss the ground beneath your feet, or whatever you guys do when you’re putting someone on a pedestal.”

Castiel shook his head, bewildered. There was nothing even remotely heroic about him. Carefully, he picked his way over the rocky ground, waiting for someone to sound an alarm, to be tackled and thrown into the dust by armed guards. No one came, but that didn’t mean anything. This was most likely a test.

Castiel did not recognize anyone from his old hospital or his previous time in the camps, but that did not mean anything. Angels were numerous, after all. He hesitated, hanging back slightly at the edge of a small group of angels. A young female angel turned her head to look at him; she gasped, nudging the man next to her. “Balthazar, it’s him!” she whispered, grabbing the man’s arm.

Five sets of eyes turned in unison towards Castiel, and he gulped, flaring his wings nervously. “I’ll be damned,” the angel referred to as Balthazar said finally, his face breaking into a grin. “You’re the one from that video! Aren’t you?”

Castiel blinked slowly. “I—I have heard that there was a video,” he said slowly, keeping his voice low in case any guards were close enough to hear him and took issue with him speaking.

“Castiel, right?” the woman demanded eagerly, her flaxen wings twitching with excitement.

“Yes.” Castiel frowned, glancing around. “What’s going on? Why—why are we all here?”

“Because you spoke,” the woman replied, hugging herself with excitement. “You spoke, and all of humanity was forced to listen. There was an uproar, and the hospitals sent us away to calm them down. Then reporters started coming through, and the guards stopped punishing us for speaking. They say we’re going to be set free, Castiel! We’re going to be able to go home!”

Reporters? Public opinion? “I thought humans would be furious that I spoke,” Castiel said, working through this new information. “My—handler was livid. You mean there are humans who don’t—who cared?”

Balthazar nodded. “All over the place. There was a huge uproar in my hospital when that video aired. Hell, the woman I was sent in to heal refused my services. The doctors didn’t know what to do.” He laughed. “She was still alive when I left the room anyways, so I guess my services weren’t needed after all. Humans with hearts—who knew such a thing existed?”

Who knew indeed? Castiel wrapped his arms about his thin chest, hugging himself. “You really think we’re going to be set free?” he asked. It was too good to be true, and Castiel did not trust the hope that flared through his chest at the idea. Hope was a ridiculous thing that had never ended well for him, but it was impossible to be completely desolate while surrounded by angels who genuinely seemed to believe that their lot in life was about to improve.

“That’s the word on the street.” Balthazar grinned. “Rachel here—” he gestured at the female angel “—has spoken to one of the reporters. Some snot-nosed kid fresh out of an internship, or something. He said there’s an angel rights group sending some persons of interest before the human government, and they’ll be able to testify any day now.”

“But if we’re freed, where will we go?” Castiel asked softly. “I mean—I knew an angel once who spoke of his tribe and their home, but how will we even find such a place?”

“Those of us who were born free know the way home.” A neat, elegant angel spoke up, folding his hands in front of him, ruffling his golden feathers as he spoke. “I am Aziraphale,” he said, smiling at Castiel. “I was born free. My tribe, and all the others with which I am acquainted, will be more than willing to offer hospitality to any angel refugee in need of a place to stay.”

Castiel nodded. “I see,” he murmured. “Then—then there is hope? I did not speak for nothing?”

“It meant everything when you spoke,” Rachel promised him, offering a wide, bright smile. “We’re as good as free, Castiel. We’re going to be able to go home.”

Home. It was a concept both relieving and foreign to Castiel. He sighed, clasping his hands in front of him. “I need time to take this in, I think,” he mumbled, his head spinning.

Perhaps he had something to live for after all.


	11. Wingless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One of Dean's friends from PAP shows up with a truck full of mutilated angels, rescued from one of the camps. With law enforcement cracking down on angel thieves, Dean can see no other option but to smuggle the angels out of the city and bring them to Samael's and Gabriel's tribe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rejoice and be glad, for one of my professors pushed back the due date of a paper! Now I can go back and edit it, rework it and make it perfect... Or I can write a chapter for you lovely people.
> 
> Don't ever doubt that I adore you. 
> 
> Also, more fun times with Enochian! (Shoot me) The phrase Samael gives Dean means 'In peace I come of Samael and Gabriel'. As previously stated, my knowledge of Enochian comes from the limited lexicon available on the internet, and I really don't know much about the grammar and sentence structure. Advice is welcome.
> 
> Warning: mutilation (the act is not shown in the chapter), discussion of executions.

The days ticked by slowly, a nearly unbearable pace as the clock dredged forward, slowly inching towards the inevitable day when Samael and Gabriel would be called before World Parliament to present their case. Dean should have been delighted. He should have been on edge with nervous excitement, thrumming with anticipation. After years of involvement in angel rights, after centuries of abuse and immorality, the human race would soon close the chapter of medical slavery.

And then Samael and Gabriel would return to the mountains, and Dean would never see them again.

He had meant it when he had promised Samael that he would not try to force him to stay. The man—his brother—had been stolen from the familiarity of his life and family once already, and Dean had no intention of forcing him to go through such a trauma again. Born human though he was, Samael clearly belonged with the angels now. Dean wasn’t blind; he saw the way Samael looked longingly to the north, and the way he clung to Gabriel when the press of PAP officials became too much. Keeping his brother with him, as much as every instinct screamed at him to never leave his side again, would be cruel. Dean could content himself with knowing that Sammy was safe, alive and well and loved, rather than buried in a shallow grave or lost to the illicit machine of human trafficking. It was more than he could have hoped for, even though he had never given up the dream that his brother still lived.

Still, the thought of losing Sam again was like a knife in his gut. For so long, the burden of failure had hung over his head, taunting him. Never mind that he had only been a child himself when his brother had disappeared, he had lived with the guilt every day, knowing that he had slept only a few feet away when a stranger had crept into their shared bedroom and stolen Sammy away. He had a chance to atone now, but that atonement would require that he let his brother go. It went at odds with everything Dean had ever imagined, but deep down, he was sure it was the right choice. It was simply painful.

Samael had not taken the revelation that he was Dean’s long-lost brother well, and it showed in their every interaction. Where the man had previously been warming up to him, engaging in easy conversation outside of their discussion of angels and the upcoming hearing, Samael now kept his distance from Dean. Gabriel had begged Dean to not take it personally, and he tried, but still his brother’s reticence rankled. Samael spent most days locked away in his room, emerging only to eat and use the bathroom, occasionally creeping out to engage with passing members of PAP. It was frustrating, more so because it was understandable. Dean could hardly imagine the hurt and confusion his brother felt.

Today was a day like any other. Dean and Gabriel sat casually on the couch, the television tuned to the news. A holographic reporter read from a script, calmly speaking of riots and desperation, of the pitiful state of the hospitals after the loss of the angels. The human death rate had skyrocketed, and people were frantic. News reports came in across the country of missing angels, and the reporter read from speculations suggesting that crime rings were stealing government property to run black-market hospitals. Dean shuddered at the thought. Fortunately, as the reporter assured viewers—or warned, as the case may be—the government was cracking down on angel thieves. Anyone with information was encouraged to contact their local police force, and lawbreakers would be dealt with swiftly and efficiently.

A sharp knock on the door jarred Dean to attention. Frowning, he pushed himself to his feet and picked a path towards the entryway, peering through the peephole at the front door. “Pamela!” he cried cheerfully, pulling the door open.

“Let me in,” the woman replied grimly, taking no time for pleasantries. Her hand was wrapped around the bicep of a teenage boy; she shouldered her way past Dean, snapping the door shut as soon as she and the boy passed over the threshold. “I don’t know how long I have before the cops come running.”

“Cops?” Dean asked, confused. Pamela sighed and motioned for the boy to turn around. After a pause, he did, revealing his back through the low cut of his shirt.

Mangled stubs of wings jutted out from his shoulders, downy white feathers caked with grime. Dean swallowed hard, staring at the kid’s mangled back. “Pam, what’s going on?” he asked urgently, staring at the woman, who met his eyes with fierce determination.

“I got a call from Missouri today,” she answered swiftly. “Reporters keep trying to get audiences with the training camps. You know she got a position in one as soon as they sent the angels back there and relaxed the security checks, right?”

“Yeah,” Dean replied slowly. “What—”

“The camps are trying to put their best foot forward, so they don’t take as much public heat,” she replied angrily. “Of course, that means they can’t leave any evidence of abused angels lying around. Missouri called me because the camp she’s with made the call this morning to have any mangled angels put down.”

“Put down?” Dean demanded furiously. “You mean—you mean they’re going to kill them?”

“Anyone crippled or otherwise visibly maimed was slated for execution,” Pamela replied, her voice shaking with ill-disguised rage. “It’s sick, but it’s not illegal yet. Missouri rounded up as many of them as she could and got them to me. I’ve got a truck full of maimed angels parked out front, but I can’t exactly keep them there. The way the government’s been cracking down on thieves, it’s only a matter of time before they catch up with me. I don’t mind going to prison, but I’m not letting the angels get sent back to their deaths.”

The boy turned to face Dean, his light eyes wide and blank. Dean cursed, running a hand through his short hair. “I want to help, Pam—you know I do. I just don’t know how I can help. I don’t have a place to hide them here.”

“I know,” Pamela replied. “None of us do, especially since the government’s probably going to issue search warrants at all the houses affiliated with PAP, yours included. I need you to find the tribes and take them there. They’ll be safe with the free angels, won’t they?”

Dean swallowed hard. “Gabriel!” he shouted. “I need a little advice here!”

Gabriel poked his head out into the hall. “What’s hanging, Deano?” he asked brightly. His gaze hardened and his jaw tightened as he caught sight of the young angel’s back. Quickly, he stepped into the hall, walking over to the angel with determined strides. He laid a gentle hand on the other angel’s shoulder; the boy flinched, turning those wide, hurt eyes upon Gabriel. He sagged with relief when he caught sight of Gabriel’s wings. Dean told himself that it didn’t bother him; of course the kid would be more comfortable with one of his own people than with a bunch of strange humans.

“One of the camps is executing angels with visible deformities,” Dean explained, jamming his hands in his pockets. Damn, he would love to get his hands on whatever bastard had given that order. “Pam here says we need to get them to the tribes before the police catch up with her. I don’t see any other way out of this. If the government finds them, they’ll just take them back.”

Gabriel nodded, a muscle twitching in his throat. “I’d take him, but it will take weeks, and we don’t have that sort of time, especially if people are out looking for them,” he said quietly, closing his eyes.

“I know,” Dean whispered, his voice rough in his own ears. “I wouldn’t ask you to do that. I'll take them.”

Gabriel sighed. “You know what you’d be getting into, right?” he asked, meeting Dean’s eyes squarely. “We don’t like humans getting close to our sets. Could be that our warriors will take you down before you even have the chance to explain why you’re there.”

“Yeah, well, there’s not much else I can do, is there?” Dean asked shakily.

Gabriel grimaced. “Let me get Samael,” he said after a moment’s pause. “He might have some idea of how to proceed. I don’t like the idea of sending you to your death.”

Dean nodded. Gabriel gave the young angel’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze and drew back, turning to walk down the hall, shouting something in Enochian. Dean glanced at Pamela, who shifted uneasily, one eye on the door. “We’ll keep them safe,” he promised. “Here.” He tossed her the keys to his ground car. “Go home. Anyone asks, you were with me when this all went down. I’ll back you up when I get back.”

“Thanks, Dean.” Pamela patted his back—whoa, okay, that was _not_ his back—and turned to the door. “Stay safe. I don’t want to bury you.”

“I will.” The door clicked behind the woman, leaving Dean alone in the hall with the young angel.

The angel flinched under Dean’s gaze, but stared back with defiant determination. “We’re going to get you somewhere safe,” Dean promised, smiling weakly. “No bones about it. I’m Dean. You got a name?”

The angel hesitated. “Samandriel,” he said finally, his stump wings twitching nervously, even as his face remained stoic.

“Good to meet you, Samandriel,” Dean said awkwardly.

Footsteps pattered down the hallway, and Gabriel and Samael walked into view. “Here’s how this is going to work,” Gabriel said, stopping a few feet short of Dean. “We’re going to tell you were the tribes are located. Don’t let anyone follow you. Samael’s going to give you some of his belongings to wear on your person and teach you a few words of Enochian. Hopefully, that will be enough to give the warriors pause long enough for Lucifer to get there. He speaks English, so you’ll be able to talk to him.”

“Listen carefully,” Samael ordered, wrapping a thick white cord around Dean’s midsection and pressing his long, sharp knife into Dean’s hand. _“A FETHARSI OL NIIS LAP SAMAEL OD GABRIEL.”_

“A fetharsi ol niis lap Samael od Gabriel?” Dean repeated, tongue tripping over the words.

“Good enough,” Gabriel said with a tight smile. “They ask you anything, just ask for Lucifer. They’ll figure it out. Here.” He shoved a small sheet of parchment into Dean’s hand. “This is a map.”

Dean frowned, scanning the crude route. “Got it,” he said finally.

“Good.” Gabriel sighed. “Be careful, Dean. Crazy as it is, I don’t want you to die.”

Dean nodded. “I’m scrappy, man. You don’t need to worry about me.”

Samael hesitated, then threw his arms around Dean. Dean staggered back, freezing momentarily. Awkwardly, he lifted his hand and patted his brother on the back. “Dude, I’ll be okay. Hell, if I’m lucky, I’ll be back before you meet with the government.”

Samael shook his head. “I may not remember you, but you are my birth brother,” he said raggedly. “And a good man too. I wish for you to live.”

“I will,” Dean promised. Forcing a grin, he stepped back, disentangling himself from Samael’s long limbs. “Can’t keep me down, and all that jazz. Watch the house, and don’t let anyone come for Gabriel, all right?”

Samael nodded. “Go,” he ordered quietly. “Either I will see you when you return to the city, or when I return to the tribe.”

“It’s a deal,” Dean promised. With a small smile, he turned to Samandriel. “Come on, kid,” he ordered the wide eyed angel, extending his hand. “Let’s get you out of here. It’s time to go home.”

0o0o0o0o0

The journey that had allegedly taken Samael and Gabriel weeks to complete was only a few hours drive, even by ground car. It would have been a breeze to take the angels in his air car, but he could only fit so many passengers, and air traffic was highly regulated. Ground cars were generally thought to be the forte of teenagers and the elderly, and so long as Dean kept to the speed limit of fifty miles per hour in the city and two hundred out of it, he ran little risk of being pulled over.

Pamela’s truck was nothing like either of his cars, and Dean made a mental note to give the vehicle a complimentary tune-up. Every bump in the road rattled through his bones, distracting him. Samandriel sat silently beside him in the front seat, his hands fisted in his lap. In the back compartment of the truck, bodies shifted and spoke quietly in a strange mix of English and Enochian. Dean wondered how many angels Pamela had rescued. He refused to wonder how many she and Missouri had been unable to save. That was something he could not help; his priority had to be getting the ones they had rescued to safety.

Paved road gave way to undeveloped ground, and Dean was forced to slow as he navigated his way through rocks and trees. He hoped Pam wouldn’t mind a few scratches—he was pretty sure that the scrape of metal against wood would take off a bumper eventually. Soft techno-jazz played from the radio—not Dean’s normal tastes, but finding a decent station would be a waste of precious time. He could fiddle with the settings on the way back.

A loud thud jarred Dean as something heavy landed atop the truck. He cursed, slamming on the brakes. A quick glance at the map told him that they were close to the tribe’s primary location. He gulped, and unbuckled his seat belt, wrapping his fist around the hilt of Samael’s blade. Carefully, he pushed open the truck door and exited the car.

No sooner had he left the vehicle than he was on the ground, pinned in place by an angel with a short, wicked knife in her hand. “A—” Dean coughed, struggling to remember the words Samael had taught him just a few hours ago. “A fetharsi ol—ol niis, lap Samael od Gabriel!” he choked out, dropping the blade and spreading his hands wide in surrender.

The angel frowned, pressing the blade to his throat, snapping something in Enochian. Dean gulped, painfully aware of the press of cold metal against his skin. “Lucifer,” he croaked, not taking his eyes off the angel above him. “I need to talk to Lucifer!”

The angel frowned, watching him warily. With her free hand, she picked up the knife Dean had dropped, examining it carefully. Her eyes softened slightly as they flicked to the cord around Dean’s waist, but she made no move to let him up. Without letting up on the pressure against Dean’s throat, she reached into a pouch tied to her hips. Drawing forth a whistle, she blew a single long, trilling note.

Dean lay quietly on the forest ground, willing his heart to slow back to a normal speed. Several minutes passed, and while the angel made no move to let him up, she also made no move to slit his throat. Dean supposed he would count that as a win.

A rush of wings turned to footsteps, and several angels made their way over to Dean. The angel upon him—probably a Watchkeeper, if Dean was remembering Samael’s depiction of the angels’ culture properly—rose, backing away swiftly. A dark, imposing angel pulled Dean to his feet, peering into his face. With a jerk of his head and a few commanding words, he gestured one of the other angels over to the ground car.

A horrified shout rang through the clearing. The angel in front of Dean whipped his head around, his eyes widening as he caught sight of Samandriel and another six angels, all in various states of clear injury. Dean winced at the sight. Missing limbs, mangled eyes, and one angel seemed to have had his tongue ripped clear out of his head. The angel warrior—Dean assumed he was the leader—shook him roughly, shouting furiously in Enochian.

“Lucifer!” Dean gasped as the angel raised his blade. He threw his arms up to shield his face, his heart pounding wildly. “I need to talk to Lucifer! Please!”

Samandriel was at his side in a flash, catching the warrior’s wrist with a thin hand before the angel could bring the blade down upon Dean. “Don’t hurt him,” he pleaded, shielding Dean with his body. “He’s trying to help.”

It was clear that the angel did not understand English, but Dean guessed that puppy-eyes could cross any language barrier, for the man lowered his blade after a short pause. The angel barked an order to his comrades and grabbed Dean’s arms, spinning him around and swiftly binding his hands behind his back. Dean grimaced at the rough handling, but he supposed he couldn’t blame the angel. He had just shown up with a truckload of the man’s mutilated fellows, after all.

The angel slung Dean over his shoulder and offered a hand to Samandriel. After a moment’s hesitation, the young angel took it, and the older man drew him into a tight, one-handed hold. Dean had hardly a moment to prepare himself before the angel launched into the air, spreading his silver-shot black wings and carrying them up the mountain.

They landed outside a large, cavernous opening, which would have resembled the mouth of a cave if not for its angular shape and the carved, glowing crystals that lined its inside. The angel released Samandriel gently and deposited Dean on his feet. Dean stumbled, walking quickly to keep up with the pace set by the man beside him. Samandriel hung back slightly, flaring his stump wings whenever anyone got too close.

The angel came to a halt outside a large, carved stone entryway, sectioned off from the main cavern by a hanging cloth. He pulled it aside and pushed Dean through, giving him a warning glare. _“Lucifer!”_ the man bellowed.

Dean stepped back instinctively as a white-and-gold winged angel, regal despite the scars that mottled his face and body, poked his head out from behind another hanging cloth. His eyes narrowed as he stared at Dean; quickly, he stepped out from behind the curtain, chattering angrily with Dean’s captor.

Finally, Lucifer turned to Dean, his eyes smoldering with fury, and the other angel ducked behind the curtain. “Uriel says you requested to see me,” he snapped, clenching and relaxing his hands. “You show up at our home with my ward’s blade and a human contraption full of our mutilated kin, and you think you have the right to a request?”

Dean gulped. “It’s not like that,” he said roughly, locking his legs before he gave into the urge to collapse to the ground. “Samael and Gabriel sent me. Samael gave me his blade so I would have proof that I came from them.”

Lucifer frowned, relaxing slightly. “Why would they send you?” he demanded, folding his arms across his chest. “Why not come themselves?”

“They’re getting ready to meet with our government,” Dean responded hastily. “They’ve been staying with me—I’m with a group that wants the angels freed. One of my friends showed up at my house today. She said one of the camps was scheduling executions for all their disfigured angels. We figured they’d be safer here than anywhere in our city.”

Lucifer’s gaze softened as he turned to Samandriel. “Is that true?” he asked, wincing as he took in the filthy remnants of wings jutting from the young man’s back.

“It is,” Samandriel replied softly. “My wings were cut off years ago for my disobedience, and they never healed. They tried to get me to grow them back, but… this was the result. They were going to kill me for it, but—but there are humans who cared enough to get us out. Dean is one of them.”

Lucifer nodded slowly. “Why would they wait years?”

Dean opened his mouth to speak, but Samandriel beat him to it. “There was a video put out recently, one that had an angel talking, and after that they pulled us all from the hospitals and labs. They didn’t want all the humans to find out how badly we were treated, so they decided to get rid of everyone who would make them ask questions.”

Lucifer hissed furiously. “Is this happening all over?”

Dean glanced at Samandriel, who shrugged, the question clear in his eyes. “I don’t know,” Dean replied finally. “I hope not, but I won’t lie—it’s a possibility.”

“Then we have to act now.” Lucifer drummed his fingers against his thigh, agitated. “Are Samael and Gabriel in danger?” he demanded.

Dean shook his head. “No. They’re under protection of P—of my group.”

Relief flashed across Lucifer’s face. He raised a trembling fist and kissed it, mumbling something in Enochian. “If they are killing angels in mass numbers, we need to get to the city,” he muttered. “You.” He pointed at Dean. “Tell me where the camps are so we can set up a raid.”

Dean swallowed hard. “I don’t know,” he replied honestly. “I never worked for them. I just know they exist.”

Lucifer examined Dean’s face, seemingly seeking out any sign that he was lying. “I see,” he said finally. “That is… not ideal.”

“You’re telling me,” Dean said, breathing a bit easier when Lucifer made no move to press the issue further. “I wish I could help more, but that’s all I know.”

Lucifer nodded. “Turn around so I can unbind you,” he ordered.

Dean turned obediently, and Lucifer’s rough hands worked the ropes from his wrists. “How many have you brought to us?” he asked, drawing back with the cord in his hands.

“Seven,” Dean replied, wincing as blood trickled back into his skin. “They—they’ve all been hurt. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Lucifer said quietly. “You brought them back to us.” He turned to Samandriel. “I am sorry—I did not ask you your name.”

“Samandriel,” the angel replied softly.

Lucifer smiled. “Samandriel,” he repeated. “That’s a good, strong name. Do you have a family, Samandriel?”

The young angel shook his head. “I was born on a breeding farm,” he replied nervously.

Lucifer grimaced. “Very well,” he said. “You and the others will stay with me until we can make other arrangements. It will be crowded, but…” He trailed off, caught in thought. “It is the best we can do,” he said finally. “Human boy,” he addressed Dean. “The Council of Three meets in eight days. Will you speak before us and let us know the status of our fellows in the human city?”

Eight days. Dean frowned, mulling it over. It was longer than Dean should stay. Samael and Gabriel should not be let alone in the house without protection for that long—but he had his coms. He could call in some favors and get his friends from PAP to drop in once a day or so. Hell, maybe even his parents would help, eager as they were to have an excuse to see Samael again. “I can do that,” he replied.

“Good.” Lucifer turned and pulled aside the hanging cloth, shouting something in Enochian. “I will take Samandriel and the other angels to my set. Uriel will keep an eye on you until I return.”

Dean winced. The idea of spending time alone in close quarters with the angel who had carried him up the mountain did not appeal to him, but Lucifer seemed to want him unharmed. Dean leaned against the wall, fiddling with the text com in his pocket.

**_Hey, Jo?_** He typed after taking a moment to gather his thoughts. **_I need a favor…_**


	12. The Political Front

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Samael and Gabriel go before World Parliament.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bleh, I'm super sorry for the wait. Life's a bitch; I got caught up in finishing one of my other stories, and then this chapter was giving me massive issues. I'm so over legal scenes of all kinds, even though I get some leeway in writing World Parliament. Imaginary One World Government go! The good news is... Well, there might (HAHA MIGHT I WISH) be more political hullabaloo, but not in the next chapter. Thank everything.
> 
> It's been so long since I've worked on this that I kept writing "Sam" instead of "Samael". Clearly I need to immerse myself in this world again, because I used to have the opposite problem (writing "Samael" instead of "Sam" in my other stories). Hopefully I'll be able to, and will be able to bring speedy updates once more!

Samael felt naked without his blade. A Watchkeeper never traveled without one; he had kept it constantly strapped to his thigh beneath his skirt since arriving in the human city, and at home it had always hung on his belt, removed only when he bathed and slept. He dug through Dean’s utensil drawer, looking for anything that could approximate. All of Dean’s knives had the wrong heft; they were for preparing food and eating, not for battle.

 _“Hey.”_ Samael started at the strange, unfamiliar voice—a young woman’s voice. He whirled around, taking in the short, slender figure before him. Curious eyes set in a delicate face, blonde hair pulled back in a practical tie, similar to the base of an angel’s braid. _“Dean asked me to keep an eye on things here. You’re Samael?”_

Warily, Samael nodded. _“I’m Jo,”_ the woman introduced herself. _“Ellen’s my mom. Dean said to tell you that Lucifer asked him to stay with the angels and speak to their council.”_

Dean had made it to the tribe unscathed, then. Good. Samael relaxed, closing the drawer of knives. _“It is good to meet you, Jo,”_ he said, sticking out his hand for the woman to shake. _“Thank you for telling me.”_

 _“Don’t mention it.”_ The woman shrugged. _“I was going to have to come over anyways. Parliament finally got back to PAP about hearing from you guys. They want you to speak at their meeting in Brussels in two days. Is that enough time for you guys to get ready?”_

Samael had been ready from the moment he and Gabriel had set foot in the human city. _“Finally,”_ he responded, offering a grin. _“We have been ready for a long time.”_

Jo nodded. _“Okay,”_ she said, leaning against the countertop. _“I guess I’m going to hang around here until Dean gets back. I’ll take you to Brussels, and we can figure out what to do after that. Sound good?”_

Samael nodded. It was about time that things moved along.

0o0o0o0o0

“Can’t say I like this,” Gabriel muttered, his fingernails digging into Samael’s palm as they stood in the large, spacious foyer of the council hall in _Brussels,_ waiting to be called before the human _Parliament._ Samael nodded his agreement, staring impatiently at large, stately wooden doors.

“It will be over soon, at least,” Samael said finally. “One way or another. Likely in our favor.”

Gabriel nodded. “If it’s not in our favor—” he sighed. “It will be war, won’t it?”

Samael frowned. He had not considered the possibility. “We have never discussed declaring war on the humans,” he said, mulling over the possibility. “I think we know we would be outmatched.”

“Yes, but this—this changes everything.” Gabriel shook his head. “All of humankind will know about us, and if they refuse to free their captives then we will have the proof the council wants that for all our seeming similarities, humans are barbarous creatures. At least, that’s the impression it will give. And if there’s no hope of the humans giving up our brethren peacefully, it will almost certainly go to war.”

Samael shivered. “It hasn’t come to that yet, and I don’t think it will,” he said with forced certainty. “I have a good feeling about this meeting.”

Gabriel sighed. “I hope so,” he murmured.

The doors swung open, and with a nervous look at Samael, Gabriel led the way in. Samael followed, swallowing his nerves as he looked around. Ellen’s and Dean’s houses were the only human buildings he had been in, and they had been elaborate enough, but this—clearly, architecture was a priority among the humans. Creamy white stone cut with almost seamless precision made up the walls, intricate wooden inlays gleaming, strangely polished to a nearly metallic sheen, and Samael’s bare feet smacked over polished rimmed with gleaming metal. Hundreds of plush chairs set up on a dais formed a semi-circle—there would be enough seats to hold humans representing all the former _countries,_ Ellen had said, though some seats were empty, their places held by screens and _holographic_ faces. Samael felt small as he strode to the center of the room. It seemed that Gabriel felt the same way; instinctively, the angel spread his wings to appear larger. Samael had to hide a smile.

 _“Gabriel Fastblade and Samael Speechbearer, the World Parliament will hear your statements,”_ one of the humans droned, mopping his dark, sweaty brow with a cloth and leaning forward in his seat. _“You are here to make a case that the government and the medical community should surrender the angels and release them as free beings. Is that correct?”_

Samael swallowed hard. He should have worked more on his _English_ before coming; nervous as he was, it was hard to understand the man. Fortunately, Gabriel did not seem to have that trouble. _“That’s correct,”_ he said seriously, flaring his wings slightly.

 _“And you are angels yourselves?”_ a portly woman asked, folding her hands over her prominent belly.

 _“I am an angel,”_ Gabriel confirmed, raising an eyebrow—as if the human council couldn’t see his wings! Samael supposed the question was part of some strange procedure. _“Samael is a human, raised by my people.”_

So many members to this human _Parliament._ Samael did not know where to look, so he gazed up at the woman and nodded. The man spoke again, and Samael turned his head; creator, he hoped that not all the councilors—no, _representatives_ was the word—would speak. _“And you mean to posit that angels are not only sentient beings, but that they have existed in the world for longer than the first recorded date of contact, March 26 th, 2643 AD?” _the representative asked. _Posit?_ Samael was unfamiliar with the word, but he thought he understood the rest of the question.

 _“That is correct,”_ Gabriel affirmed. _“We have a history that dates back thousands of years.”_

One of the representatives raised his hand, drawing Samael’s attention. _“Question for Mr. Speechbearer,”_ he said, flashing a false smile, bright in his lean, feral face. _“How did you come to be raised by the angels?”_

Ellen had warned him about answering that, Samael remembered. _“Is that relevant to this meeting?”_ he asked coolly. _“From what I understand, human Parliament keeps a tight schedule, and I would not like to derail the conversation.”_

The man blinked, and then laughed. _“Very true, Mr. Speechbearer,”_ he said, nodding agreeably. _“Then may I direct a question to Mr. Fastblade?”_

 _“Yes,”_ Gabriel said with a shrug, his tawny wings fluttering as he rolled his shoulders.

_“Mr. Fastblade, there has been some speculation that the seeming sentience of the angels is an elaborate ploy, with certain angel rights groups training the angels to mimic human speech and emotion. How can you prove your sentience?”_

Was that a real question? Samael glanced at Gabriel, just as the angel burst out laughing. _“Are you serious?”_ he asked, spreading his hands mockingly. Samael elbowed him—they had to keep calm! Gabriel shot him an annoyed look and continued. _“Here I am, standing right before you, answering questions I couldn’t have known ahead of time. I’d say that’s a pretty clear sign that I can understand your language, which no dumb animal could do.”_

 _“Very well, Mr. Fastblade,”_ the representative said, flashing his teeth in a smile. _“I assume you would have no issue with fielding some questions unrelated to this direct hearing, just to be certain?”_

 _“Lay them on me,”_ Gabriel replied with a shrug. Samael groaned inwardly; yes, Gabriel was proving his point about sentience, but what if the humans counted his overly relaxed demeanor against them?

 _“I have a question for both Mr. Fastblade and Mr. Speechbearer,”_ a reedy woman said. _“How did you come to speak English? I would assume that’s not the language angels usually learn.”_

And so the hearing went, dragging on for hours until Samael felt wrung out and drained, his energy completely sapped. It was clear that while some in _Parliament_ were sympathetic towards them, others sang a different tune. Question after question was lobbied at them, some probing for answers, others downright accusatory. One human in particular, Samael would love to meet in a challenge ring for a blade-to-blade fight; the woman asserted that as Gabriel was _“escaped property of the medical field”_ his testimony should be disregarded, and he should be thrown back to the hospitals in chains. Samael had nearly forgotten himself, stepping protectively in front of the angel, reaching for his absent blade, but Gabriel had pushed him aside and suggested—dangerously, Samael had thought—that the woman go have sex with herself. There had been laughter in the _Parliament’s_ chamber at that comment, even from many of the representatives who seemed unsympathetic to their cause.

Finally, they were dismissed. _“It will take some time for Parliament to decide on a course of action,”_ the man who had first spoke said, clasping his pudgy hands together. _“We will take your testimony into account in drafting a new law. It is Parliament’s request that you stay in Brussels at an Embassy house as ambassadors until we have reached a conclusion. Depending on the direction the proceedings go, you may be called in to give input on any new bills Parliament chooses to draw up. For now, you may take your leave.”_

It wasn’t until they had exited the chamber that Samael realized Gabriel was shaking. “You all right?” he asked, concerned. He laid a hand on Gabriel’s shoulder, squeezing lightly.

“Oh, I’m fantastic,” Gabriel replied sarcastically. “That _bitch_ back there said they should send me back to the hospitals, and that didn’t affect me at all.” He sighed, ruffling his wings, clearly agitated. “And now we have to wait until they can draft some law before we know if it even meant anything. And we have to stay here, which is really comforting. Really.”

Samael nodded sympathetically. “If they’re treating us as envoys, they won’t touch you,” he said firmly, hoping that it was true. Who knew how civilized humans were when it came to outsiders? _PAP_ was one thing; _Parliament_ something completely different.

Gabriel nodded and opened the door upon a sea of humanity, strangely dressed men and women brandishing strange metal instruments. Samael bit back an undignified squeak of surprise before realizing that none of the devices seemed to be weapons. _“Mr. Speechbearer, Mr. Fastblade!”_ a man shouted, brandishing a long black stick. _“A word for World Weekly News?”_

 _“Mr. Speechbearer, what made you decide to side with the angels?”_ a woman asked, pushing her way to the front.

_“Mr. Fastblade, can we get an insider’s account on what it’s like to be an angel with the hospitals?”_

_“All right, all right, back off!”_ A dark, imposing looking human came up behind Samael and Gabriel, shouldering past them to stand before the mass of humans. _“No one’s answering any questions! Mr. Speechbearer, Mr. Fastblade, please come with me. We have an air car waiting to take you to the embassy.”_

Samael tossed a glance at Gabriel, who had gone white, his eyes huge in his thin face. “Come on,” he urged, seizing Gabriel’s shoulder and directing him after the well-dressed human, who seemed to be their official escort. “The sooner we get out of here, the sooner—”

 _“Mr. Fastblade!”_ One of the humans physically seized the back of Gabriel’s tunic; with a cry, the angel whipped around, jerking out of the man’s grasp. _“What will happen to the sick and injured if the angels aren’t around to heal them?”_

 _“Why don’t you ask one of your doctors that?”_ Gabriel shouted, and Samael grabbed his upper arm, dragging him back. Their escort was in front of them in a flash, a single finger pressed to a small earpiece.

 _“Security, come in. This is Henriksen, requesting reinforcements.”_ The man shook his head and addressed the crowd. _“What part of no questions is so difficult to understand? This was a classified meeting, and it will remain that way until the government gives the say-so! Make room for the ambassadors to get through, or I’ll have you all arrested for harassing foreign officials!”_

 _“They’re not foreign officials if they don’t represent an actual country!”_ someone yelled from the back of the crowd, but the mass of humans parted enough for Samael and Gabriel to follow their escort, half-running, to the large, sleek black air car parked on the front Launchpad.

 _“Sorry about that,”_ their escort said when they were settled in the back of the air car. _“Reporters are the bane of my existence. Special Agent Henriksen,”_ he said, sticking out a hand. Belatedly, Samael remembered that humans shook hands upon meeting and gripped his palm firmly. Gabriel did the same. _“I’ve been assigned to look after you guys for the duration of your stay in Brussels. It’s my job to keep you safe and alive at any cost.”_

Samael nodded awkwardly. _“Thank you,”_ he said, running his thumb absently over his empty blade sheath.

 _“You got it,”_ the man said, fixing him with a friendly smile.

The trip did not last long, and Henriksen led Samael and Gabriel to a large, imposing building, many times the size of Dean’s house. _“You’ve got a fully equipped suite on the top floor. These are voicecoms,”_ he said, passing Samael and Gabriel each a small mechanical device, _“and they’ve got a direct line to my earpiece. Anyone gives you trouble, you give me a call, and I’ll come sort it out. The only people who’ve got any right to enter your suite are the cleaning staff. No reporters.”_

 _“Good,”_ Gabriel said tightly. Henriksen shook his head and showed them to their suite, assuring them that he was staying in the room next door.

The suite itself was nearly the size of Dean’s house; Samael shook his head, marveling at the humans’ desire to section off their living quarters into so many rooms, and such large ones at that. “I guess it could be worse,” he determined, noting the kitchen’s fully stocked refrigerator—so much bulkier than keeping a box of food spelled against decay, but humans did not have Spellcrafters—and the soft, detachable couch cushions in the living room. He pulled one to the floor and settled down, glancing up at Gabriel. “Are you all right?”

Gabriel hesitated before nodding, flashing Samael a cheeky grin that did not reach his eyes. “Yeah, I’m all good,” he said, the cheer in his voice forced. “Can’t believe I’m saying this, but I actually appreciate the stick up _Special Agent_ Henriksen’s ass. I know, call the _media—_ oh, wait. No reporters allowed.” He released a weak chuckle.

Samael shook his head, torn between calling Gabriel’s bluff and allowing the man to keep his pride. “Well, I guess it’s back to the waiting game,” he said finally, rolling his shoulders.

“My favorite game.” Gabriel sighed and flopped to the floor, not bothering to pull down a cushion. “So, what now? There’s a _television_ , there’s books, there’s masturbation…”

“Gabriel!” Samael yelped, startled, his face burning at the man’s words. “Seriously? You—seriously?”

“Hey, I spent fifty springs trapped in a complete hell with no privacy. You bet I’ve been making up for lost time.”

Samael groaned, rolling his eyes. “I didn’t need to know that,” he muttered. “ _Television_ is good. I don’t read English.”

Gabriel sighed. “Point,” he said. “Neither do I. Never learned.” He shook his head. “It’s a little weird, being alone. I got used to all those humans coming by at all hours, to Dean’s obnoxious questions… It’s quiet.”

Samael nodded. It was strangely quiet—almost peaceful. Perhaps it would be peaceful if not for the sickening anticipation that twisted in his gut, the terrifying idea that _Parliament_ would decide to not release the angels. What would happen then, to him, to Gabriel? Would he be forced to stay with the humans, forced to watch Gabriel be sent back into a life of slavery? No, he decided, that would never happen. He would kill his way back to his tribe if necessary.

“You’re thinking too hard,” Gabriel said, apparently noticing Samael’s silence. “Lighten up! I don’t know about you, but I can use a break from all the intensity.”

Samael offered him a small smile. “This is true,” he said, reaching up for the _remote_ on the coffee table.

It seemed that the news that an angel and an angel-raised human were meeting with _Parliament_ had gotten out; several channels were broadcasting speculations. Samael turned the _television_ off when the screen cut to a shot of the reporter grabbing Gabriel. He turned to face the angel; Gabriel’s face was twisted with something that looked like pain, and Samael reached for his hand.

“So much for a break from the intensity, huh?” Gabriel asked, forcing a grin.

Samael nodded. “No _television_ ,” he said firmly.

“No _television,”_ Gabriel echoed quietly. “Guess that leaves masturbation.”

“Can you please not say that?” Samael grumbled, flushing. “That should be private.”

“Prude,” Gabriel teased, but his voice was hollow.

Samael sighed and squeezed Gabriel’s hand, wishing more than ever that he had wings, that he could wrap the man in a comforting, feathered embrace. “Let’s talk about something else,” he suggested. “Tell me a story about Lucifer as a child.”

“Swapping stories about Luci?” Gabriel replied, smiling shakily. “Yeah, I can do that. So, when I was thirty springs, Luci had a thing for Naomi…”

0o0o0o0o0

Samael would never get used to sleeping on human beds. The texture was too strange, too synthetic; they were too far from the floor. He missed his mat, his space in Lucifer’s set. He wondered if Lucifer had taken in the angels Dean had saved. Right now, there was probably someone else sleeping on his mat, warm and safe for the first time in years. The thought made him smile sadly. He hoped there would still be room for him when he returned.

Then again, perhaps he should look into building his own set. He was young, especially young thanks to his accelerated growth, but angels the equivalent to his age sometimes moved out of their parents’ dwellings. Most waited until they took a spouse, but Samael did not see that in his future. Wingless and human, he was hardly what someone would look for in a life partner, despite his otherwise valuable position in the tribe. And that was fine; there was no one in the tribe he had ever thought of romantically anyways.

He shifted restlessly, staring at the wall. Henriksen had given them _voicecoms_. Perhaps he could contact Dean, and maybe even speak to Lucifer. The thought was comforting; he would like to hear his guardian’s voice, to find out how the tribe was faring. He would have to figure out how to go about that.

Sleep still did not want to come easily, but with that thought in mind, it was easier for Samael to close his eyes and relax. Eventually, he would drift off; when he finally did, he dreamed of home.


	13. The Reformed Camps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life in the reformed camps is a far cry from Castiel's previously miserable existence, and though he is surrounded by human reporters and guards, though he despairs of ever being free, he cannot seem to quench that spark of hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahahaha. This chapter isn't coming out the way I want it to, and I don't feel like editing it. It's garbage, I tell you, garbage! I need to move the plot along and get Castiel out of the camps. Sigh. Feedback is much appreciated, especially if you have ideas on how I can go back and fix this thing, because it feels bloody trite and out of character.

Life in the camps would probably be considered unpleasant by any human, but to Castiel, it was a breath of fresh air, better than anything he had ever known. Though the watchful eyes of the guards hung over the angels at all times, no human made a move to lay a hand on them. Showers were cold and brief, but nothing compared to being hosed down while chained immobile. The cells had been converted to cramped barracks, and though the angels slept three to a bed, Castiel took comfort in the proximity of his people. Best of all, they could speak freely, a pleasure Castiel had never thought he would have.

He suspected that their newfound freedom lay in the hands of the reporters that swarmed the camps, taking pictures and videos, interviewing the braver angels. For his part, Castiel avoided the nosy humans. The last time he had spoken to a human with a camera, he had ended up in Alastair’s unrestrained hands for weeks of torture. He had no desire to repeat the experience; whenever a human approached him, he would wrap his wings around himself, hiding within their protective shell until the human left.

“They don’t mean any harm, you know,” Balthazar said one day as they sat on their shared bed, earthen bowls of soup warming their hands. “Yeah, you get the occasional pro-slavery reporter, but most of them are eager to get evidence that we’re people too.” Castiel supposed that Balthazar would know; the angel had recently taken a shine to one of the regular reporters, a young human named Kevin. “I’ll bet they’d be really gentle with you, anyways,” the man continued, taking a long slurp from his bowl. “You’re the guy who started this all. It’s not just angels who think you’re a hero.”

Castiel shrugged, swilling his soup absently. Thick chunks of potatoes and meat slopped against the insides of the bowl, heartier than any meal he had ever eaten before his rescue. It was too rich to finish, he decided, putting the dish aside. “I’m glad I made a difference,” he said finally, “but I can’t forget what happened after. The consequences were too severe for me to speak to a human again.”

Balthazar nodded. “Ah, but this is different,” he said sagely, his eyes sparkling. “There are strictures in place now that would prevent anyone from punishing you. This is as safe as it gets, Castiel.” He smiled, reaching across the bed to snag Castiel’s half-eaten bowl.

“I suppose.” Castiel sighed, folding his hands in his lap.

Balthazar patted his bony shoulder. “Don’t be maudlin, Castiel,” he ordered firmly. “You’ll see. Things can only get better from here.”

0o0o0o0o0

Things got worse the next day.

Castiel was drying his hair, his rough clothes chafing his wet skin, when a group of humans burst into the shower room, cameras flashing, their bright lights blinding Castiel. He yelped, dropping the towel, and threw out his wings, puffing himself up instinctively. “Castiel!” shouted one of the reporters, shoving a microphone in his face. “It’s Castiel, right? What do you think of the confidential meeting in Brussels?”

“Do you see this as a victory for the angel rights movement?”

“Are you resentful that another angel went before World Parliament? Do you think it should have been you?”

The blood drained steadily from Castiel’s face; he stumbled backwards, his wings flattening against the wall. “I don’t want to talk!” he cried, burying his face in his hands. “Go away!”

“Is it true that you were in league with People for Angels for People when you first spoke up?” one of the humans demanded, ignoring him.

Castiel shook his head frantically, looking around the empty room. There were no guards in the showers—privacy was a new privilege afforded to the angels, it seemed. Castiel was no longer grateful. “Leave me alone! Please!”

“Can you comment on the state of the camps? What’s changed since you were first brought here?”

Castiel squeezed his eyes shut, shaking. There were too many of them—too many humans, too many of the creatures that had hurt him his entire life, and there was no escaping them. He was well and truly trapped, and there was no escaping.

“Hey!” Castiel’s eyes flew open; Meg pushed her way through the swarm, led by the reporter Balthazar favored. It seemed that the young human had come to fetch her; Castiel had never thought he would be so glad to see a human face. “Hey, back off. He said he doesn’t want to talk.”

“Miss Masters!” Meg scowled, batting away the microphone shoved in her face. “Is it true that you used to run a testing facility? What made you change your tune?”

Meg had run a testing facility? If there was any blood left in Castiel’s face, it was gone now. His limbs fell slack; dimly, he was aware of a small hand on his shoulder, pulling him through the crowd. It was Meg’s, he realized, and he jerked free.

“You ran a testing facility?” His voice cracked on the words. “You tortured us?”

Meg sighed, spreading her arms wide. “It wasn’t like that,” she said, her voice slow and measured. It did little to soothe the horror Castiel felt. “Look, angel rights groups are great and all, but they hadn’t made any progress in more than a century. Anyone who gave a shit and had a brain in their heads got into work directly with the angels. Yeah, not the most ethical way to do things, but get high enough up the food chain and you could start to make a little bit of a difference. Did you know that the labs used to run twenty-four hours, seven days a week? People like me got in charge, and we were able to cut back to a maximum of twelve hours a day, five days a week. Cite the need to keep the inventory from breaking down so quickly, and the government’s all ready and willing to pass laws.”

Castiel shook his head, glaring at the woman. “Go,” he said finally. Meg had seemed better than the others, but it seemed it was true. There were no good humans. “Leave!” he shouted when she hesitated.

“Okay, I’m gone.” Meg held up her hands in surrender, backing away swiftly. Castiel turned, striding the length of the courtyard, glaring at the sparse reporters who looked his way. Sadists, every one of them.

Life in the reformed camps might be more pleasant than the hospitals or the testing center, but he was no more free here than he was there. Still a bug in a jar, curious, probing eyes plastered on him, unable to escape, this was simply a more refined form of captivity, and he hated it. Castiel stalked to an empty corner by the force-field gates, settling down in the dirt, dust trailing over the ends of his feathers. How long would it be before the rest of the angels realized that they were still in captivity, he wondered bitterly. Yes they were well fed, yes they were allowed to speak, yes they were out of the hospitals, but they were still slaves. They were simply curiosities, animals to gawk at, rather than instruments. In a way, it was worse; Castiel was sure that the spark of stupid, vain hope would kill him.

Soft footsteps pattered over the dusty ground, and Castiel glanced up. “Balthazar,” he said dully, his shoulders slumping. As wonderful as it was to have a friend, the other angel’s propensity toward human reporters was not something he wished to deal with.

“You all right there, Castiel?” Balthazar seemed concerned, a far cry from his usual cheerful self. “Kevin told me what happened in the showers.”

“Kevin.” Of course. Balthazar’s favorite human.

Balthazar patted Castiel on the shoulder. “Cheer up, love. Aziraphale has something to show us.”

Castiel stood, shaking dust clumps from his damp wings. “What is it?” he asked, following the man across the courtyard.

“You’ll see.” Balthazar ducked into the barracks, holding the door open. Castiel froze, his eyes landing on the stocky human beside Aziraphale, dressed smartly in a suit, tapping his foot impatiently.

“Well, come on now, before I get called off on some petty rounds mission,” the man said briskly. His accented voice was vaguely familiar, but Castiel was not sure where he had heard it before.

“Crowley brought his portable video streamer,” Aziraphale said, smiling at Castiel and Balthazar. “Come on! There’s footage from the angel rights hearing!”

Warily, Castiel approached the two men, angling himself as far away from Crowley as possible. Aziraphale held a small screen in his hands, frozen on the image of a tall human and an angel exiting a large, stately building. Castiel held his breath as Aziraphale’s neat fingers moved over the screen, setting the image to playing. A crisp female voice spoke over the footage; Castiel half listened, staring with wide eyes at the angel. Outside the hospital, wearing strange clothing, it was still impossible to mistake Gabriel for anyone else. His friend was alive.

 _“Tensions are high outside the World Parliament building in Brussels, regarding the first hearing regarding angel rights,”_ the announcer proclaimed as the footage zoomed in on the two men. Castiel flinched as one of the reporters grabbed Gabriel, who pulled away; the tall human dragged him back, shoving through the crowd after an imposing human. _“Many speculate that this could be the end of modern medicine as we know it. While some see this as a victory for civil rights, others fear that we could be heading towards a dark age and a high death toll. Messrs.’. Fastblade and Speechbearer were unavailable for comment, so we turn to the crowd for statements.”_

The camera panned to the crowd of reporters, focusing on individual faces as they spoke. Castiel shook his head—the reactions were varied, some speaking in support of the angels, and others in support of the medical community. Castiel was surprised by the number of humans who seemed in favor of releasing the angels, even granting them the same rights afforded to humanity.

_“While most of our representatives have deigned to comment, we at WNN have secured a brief audience with Representative Lilith Matoile. Ava, could you take us to the representative?”_

The screen cut to a creamy room, warmly furnished with intricately carved wooden furniture. Pristine in a white pantsuit, a blonde human woman sat facing another round-faced human, who held a microphone out to the stately lady. “Representative Matoile, what can you tell us about the angel hearing?” the round faced woman asked, smiling brightly.

“It was a difficult day for many of our representatives,” the blonde woman said smoothly, “in which Parliament received a lot of new information to consider. It will take some time for us to come to a course of action.”

“In your personal opinion, what do you think the outcome of the hearing will be?”

Lilith Matoile smiled, a cruel expression despite her pretty face. Castiel shuddered and glanced at Balthazar; from the expression on the other angel’s face, Balthazar found her unnerving as well. “I cannot speak on the matter,” the representative said calmly, “for reasons of confidentiality. Parliament will have to decide what we as a world hold most dear; the plight of a foreign race, or our health and well-being as humans.”

“Will you give WNN an indication of where you stand on the matter?” the reporter asked eagerly.

“Certainly.” The representative smiled, flashing bright white teeth at the camera, her shapely eyebrows raised in an expression of practiced concern. “While I do sympathize with the angels, I was elected to protect my constituents and represent their concerns. I do not feel that it is prudent to put any cause over the health of my constituents, and I side with the medical community on this issue.”

The reporter nodded sympathetically. “And what if your constituents as a whole expressed pro-angel opinions?” she asked brightly.

The representative’s smile tightened. “As no such official poll exists, I cannot comment on the matter,” she replied archly, folding her elegant hands in her lap.

“Very well, Representative Matoile.” The reporter offered her own, much kinder smile. “What do you think of the allegations that well known angel rights group People for Angels for People is involved in these hearings?”

“I can confirm those allegations.” A cool, neutral expression—a politician’s game face—washed over Matoile’s face. “People for Angels for People was integral in setting up these hearings to begin with.”

People for Angels for People. That was the name of Dean’s group, Castiel remembered. Unbidden, the image of Dean’s face expanded in his mind, concerned bright green eyes flashing against tanned skin. He shook himself, determined to pay attention. He still hated Dean, he reminded himself. The man had left him alone to be tortured.

“Thank you for your time, Representative Matoile.” The video ended there, and Aziraphale handed the screen to Crowley. Castiel forced himself back to the present, glancing around at the two angels and single human.

A moment passed in silence before Balthazar spoke. “That doesn’t seem promising,” he said, throwing a sidelong glance at Castiel. Castiel nodded; he could not help but agree.

“Oh, it’s very promising,” Crowley assured them, pocketing the device. “I worked with Lilith long ago, before I left politics. Perfectly nasty woman. She wouldn’t deign to talk to the press unless she thought she needed to work up public sympathy.” Crowley’s lips twitched with amusement. “If Lilith’s meeting with the press, it means she’s worried. Trying to stir up sympathy with voters worldwide, so they can bully their representatives into siding against the angels.”

What if they did? Castiel clenched his fists tightly, shaking. Crowley glanced at him and smirked. “Oh, don’t fret, angel. Your case is as good as won. Soon enough, your people will be off flying free in the skies, playing harps and singing songs—or whatever it is you do.”

“That’s a pretty far cry from everyday angelic life,” Aziraphale muttered.

Crowley laughed. “Yes, I suppose so.” He shook his head. “Well, I’m late for my patrols, as always. Carry on.” The man turned on his heel and left, leaving the three angels alone.

Castiel stared after the man, his head spinning. “I don’t think it’s as simple as he makes it out to be,” he said finally, sinking down onto one of the beds.

“Probably not,” Balthazar agreed slowly. “Still, it’s progress, isn’t it?”

“Is it?” Castiel ran a thumb absently over the coarse sheets. “I’ll believe it when it happens.”

“Again with the morose attitude. A little hope never killed anyone, did it?” Balthazar cocked his head.

Castiel clenched his teeth, anger simmering in his gut. “No,” he said shortly. “But hope got me taken away to be tortured for weeks.” He flopped down and curled up on the bed, burying his face in the sheets.

Perhaps he was being petulant. If he hadn’t spoke, if he hadn’t had hope, then he would still be in the labs, probably screaming in pain right now. He had only moved from one place of torment to another, after all. He wasn’t sure what made his captivity with Alastair and Azazel so much worse than his time in the facility. Maybe it was the violation of trust. He had stupidly trusted Dean, he had placed hope and desperation in the man’s hands, and that made those weeks of agony so much worse. Even now, there was no guarantee that the angels would be freed. Any day now, he could be dragged back to the testing labs, as though he had never left.

0o0o0o0o0

It seemed that Aziraphale had latched onto Crowley as an informant, just as Balthazar had latched onto Kevin as a reporter. The next day, Castiel was dragged off to the barracks to watch the sentencing of Azazel and Alastair. He couldn’t deny that he took savage pleasure in watching them sentenced to prison and captivity, but knowing that it was for theft rankled. They would not suffer for the torture they had inflicted upon him and all the rest of the angels, simply for running off with government property. It was infuriating.

Time passed slowly, and days melded together. He was bored, Castiel realized. For the first time in his life, he was safe enough to actually feel boredom. Sleep was a thing he did because he was tired, not because he was trying to conserve precious energy; the distraction of hunger pangs was a thing of the past. Safe and cared for, no longer in pain or discomfort, there was nothing to distract Castiel from the monotony of his life.

At least it was better than torture.

He became inured to the presence of humans in the camps, and even took up tentative conversations with Crowley, so long as Aziraphale was present. Meg stayed in the background, and Castiel felt his misgivings and hatred towards the former testing director slip away. Perhaps she had only been trying to help.

Castiel had been in the camps for two weeks before he finally dredged up the courage to allow Balthazar’s pet reporter to interview him. Something about Kevin set Castiel at ease, the way Dean had; speaking with the reporter was unlikely to end in pain, however, and so Castiel allowed himself to trust the man—well, trust him as far as he could any human.

Unlike the other reporters, Kevin did not seem interested in beating around the bush or asking open questions, for which Castiel was grateful. “What made you decide to speak?” the human youth asked eagerly, fiddling with his camera tripod. Castiel shifted as the lens zoomed in on his face, but did not look away. If he spoke to Kevin, perhaps the other reporters would leave him alone.

“I was worn down,” he said softly, staring at the lens. “I was tired. I have spent my entire life in pain, and the torment caught up to me. I made the mistake of trusting a human, but I suppose that I cannot regret it forever. If we’re freed, it will have been worth the pain.”

Kevin offered a smile, a genuine look of compassion rather than the false face of a reporter out looking for a story. “Well, I think most people are glad you did. Did you suspect that speaking out would lead to a push for angel rights?”

Castiel shook his head, twitching nervously. “No,” he said, “I just hit my breaking point.”

“Okay.” Kevin folded up his camera, and Castiel blinked, confused. “Hey, I know you’re not really comfortable talking to reporters,” the young human said by way of explanation. “Better short and sweet than a long, drawn-out interview. It’s more than anyone else has gotten, anyways,” he said with a wink.

Castiel smiled, shifting awkwardly. Kevin waved, and turned to leave, walking across the courtyard to talk to Balthazar. Castiel shook his head and made his way across the dusty ground, glancing up at the sky as he walked.

What would it be like to fly? He might get the chance to find out. The force field above the complex kept him grounded, but suppose he were to leave, either by legal means or illegally? Castiel twitched his wings, soaring through the sky in his imagination. Cool wind ruffling through his hair and feathers, skating across his skin as he moved—it would be nice to not be grounded. To fly far away, cloister himself where he would never see another human face again. It was a dream, he decided, and one he could cling to, whether or not it would come true.

It would happen, he decided. No matter the outcome of the angel rights hearing, someday, he would fly.


	14. Good Men Go to War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean meets with the Council of Three, and is unnerved by their decision regarding any action to take against humanity. When he finds out that Parliament comes to an unwelcome verdict regarding the angels, Dean realizes that it is a race against time to prevent angels and humans from going to war.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to be honest; I hate this chapter. Hate, hate, hate it. That's less to do with the content and more to do with it being a royal bitch that fought me every step of the way. All these months I didn't update? I was consistently trying to write this chapter. It just did not want to be done.
> 
> Fortunately, I hit an inspiration streak (and it's in part thanks to you lovely people who continued to comment and express support for this story) and was able to get it finished. FINALLY. It's not my best work, but if I'd posted it any earlier it would have been a steaming pile of NOPE, so I'll take what I can get on it. I'm going to call this a victory, because this chapter has been turning my brain to gum for months, and I can FINALLY move on to the other chapters. Like next one. Hahahaha.... I will be very upset with myself if next chapter doesn't come easily to me, because I considered just skipping this one and going right to the Sam POV about 300 times in these past few months.

This was probably the most surreal thing he had ever experienced, Dean realized as he stood in a huge, cavernous room carved into the side of the mountain, three angels on the dais in front of him, a multitude several yards back behind him. Public speaking had never been his forte; he swallowed hard and shifted, waiting for the three angel councilors to finish conversing amongst themselves. This really should be Ellen’s job, or maybe one of the other higher ups, he thought absently.

He wished he could speak Enochian. Probably the most nerve-wracking part of this whole situation was that he had no idea what was going on. For all he knew, the angels were trading recipes and planning a birthday party before him. Okay, that was ridiculous, but it still stood that he had been called to give input before a governing body of angels, and he did not even know what they were discussing.

Finally, Lucifer broke from the conversation with the other two councilors and motioned for Dean’s attention. “Have Samael and Gabriel spoken before your council yet?” the angel asked seriously, regal voice measured, imposing.

“Yeah,” Dean replied. Ellen had called him a few days ago to fill him in on the situation. “They went before Parliament several days ago. It’ll be a while before anything solid gets worked out, I think.” Dean hoped they wouldn’t ask him to go into greater detail. Politics—not his area of expertise.

The dark skinned councilor turned to Lucifer, his low rumble just reaching Dean’s ears. Lucifer replied, and they spoke back and forth for a few long moments. “So no decision has been made,” Lucifer said finally, turning to address Dean. “For all intents, it is as though we never sent them.”

Dean grimaced. “For now, I—yes,” he said. “As far as I know.”

Lucifer nodded and turned to his fellow councilors, speaking quickly. The disconnect made Dean’s head spin. Finally, after several long moments of discussion, one of the three councilors stood to address the crowd behind Dean. The low, regal rumble sent shivers down Dean’s spine; intently, he watched the angel’s face, trying desperately to glean some sort of clue from his expression.

A young female angel came forward from the crowd, her large eyes shining in her young face. The speaker—if Dean was remembering correctly, Lucifer had said this was Michael—laid a reassuring hand on her shoulder and spoke directly to her. Lucifer and the other councilor—Raphael, Dean thought—stood then, coming forward to address her. The woman listened intently, nodding twice, her deep sable wings rippling as she flexed them. The three councilors stepped back and she backed away, slipping back into the throng as the council turned to address the crowd at large.

After a long speech, the crowd dispersed, leaving the councilors and Dean alone in the hall. Lucifer and Michael continued speaking to each other, heated words flying quickly, as Raphael looked on. Finally, Michael turned away, shedding his sash and motioning for Raphael to follow him. Lucifer pulled his sash over his head and made his way towards Dean, a grim smile plastered over his features.

“What happened?” Dean asked, falling in step beside the angel.

“The council has made arrangements,” Lucifer replied calmly. “We are sending Hael to the tribes across the world to let them know that your council is working on freeing the angels. No further action will be taken until they have come to a decision.”

Dean nodded slowly. “And then?” he asked, unable to quell the prickling sense of forboding that rose in his mind.

Lucifer shrugged. “It is up to your council,” he said calmly. “If they free the angels, then there will be no need to treat with humanity. We will take in our brothers and sisters and settle them back amongst the tribes.” He glanced at Dean, bright eyes cool, steady. “If the human council chooses to continue this path of slavery, we will stand for it no longer. There will be war.”

Dean shuddered. Maybe he should be glad that the angels were at least waiting until Parliament had made a decision before attacking. “There won’t be war,” he replied, hoping that he sounded confident. “Parliament will free the angels. They have to.”

“I hope you are correct.” Lucifer slid the stone door open and led the way out of the hall, swiftly heading for his treetop home. “War would devastate both our peoples. Nonetheless, this is a lenient decision. Raphael was all for massing our forces to invade your people as soon as next week. This is the last chance for things to be resolved peacefully.”

0o0o0o0o0

_“It’s not looking so good,”_ Ellen said finally, worrying her lower lip, the grainy image blurring slightly in front of Dean. _“Samael and Gabriel went before Parliament about a week ago, and there hasn’t been a decision yet. I haven’t been able to contact them since.”_

“They’re safe though, right?” Dean asked, fingers clenching hard around his vidcom.

_“Yeah, there would have been news if something had happened to them.”_ Ellen shook her head. _“That’s all we know on that front. Now, we’ve got some good news you might be interested in hearing, and some bad news you’re hearing like it or not. Which one do you want first?”_

Dean sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I’ll take good news,” he said tightly, grimacing.

_“They’ve found Castiel.”_

Dean straightened, nearly dropping his com. “They did?” he asked eagerly. “He’s okay, right? I mean—”

_“I don’t know if okay’s the word I’d use, but he’s not getting any worse.”_ Ellen shook her head regretfully. _“He’s in the camps with the other free angels. Our reporter says he’s pretty gun shy. Apparently that old boss of yours took a liking to him and is keeping the hyena-type press from getting close to him.”_

“Which old boss? Bobby?” Dean had trouble imagining the gruff old man directly involving himself with angels, but stranger things had happened.

Ellen shook her head. _“Funnily enough, that boss of yours from your mole operation. Masters, was it?”_

“Masters, yeah.” Well, color him shocked. Dean couldn’t imagine the woman allying herself with angel rights under any circumstances. She had seemed much too content busying herself with Roman’s testing and enslavement policies.

_“Anyway, that’s the good news. I wish I had more of that.”_ Ellen sighed, shaking her head. _“Officials arrested Missouri two days ago. They think she had something to do with breaking that group of angels out of one of the camps. I don’t want to know if she did,”_ the woman said, raising a hand to cut Dean off as he opened his mouth to speak. _“Lord knows I don’t want her in prison, but the only way to get her out is for the real culprit to turn themselves in. Missouri already said she doesn’t want that.”_

“Shit,” Dean breathed, sagging backwards. “No one’s available to bust her out?”

Ellen snorted. _“What, so she can go on the run for the rest of her life? We’re sending sympathetic reporters to the jail to talk to her. Get the story out, get some public sympathy, and we’ll be okay.”_ The woman grimaced. _“Looks like it’s all gonna be PR and politics from here on out. I hope you’re ready for that headache, boy.”_

“This is why I never applied for a leadership position,” Dean remarked, his lips twitching at the scowl on Ellen’s face. “That’s for you to deal with, not me.”

_“Trust me, I’ll fob off as much as I can on the rest of you,”_ Ellen replied. _“How are things out with the angels?”_

Dean hesitated. Did he tell Ellen about the possibility of war? He probably should—if there was the chance that things could escalate into violence, the rest of humanity at least deserved warning. But there wasn’t really any sense in causing panic over a possibility—and there would be panic if the idea of a war with the angel leaked out. Hell, it could even screw up Samael’s and Gabriel’s case. “Great,” he lied, dispassionate smile sliding over his lips.

_“Hmmm.”_ Ellen raised her eyebrows, image flickering slightly as she folded her arms across her chest. _“Want to give me an answer that passes the bullshit test?”_

Right—Ellen was on the short list of people he couldn’t lie to. “Everything’s going to be fine as long as Parliament frees the angels,” he said carefully, schooling his features.

_“Uh-uh. And if they don’t?”_ Ellen asked, her eyes narrowing slightly.

Dean grimaced. “They will,” he said firmly. “They have to.”

_“You’ve got way too much faith in politicians, if you think that,”_ Ellen shot back. _“They might. They might not. In a worst case scenario here, what are the angels planning to do? They wouldn’t have sent Samael and Gabriel unless they were getting serious about stopping this whole debacle.”_

Briefly, Dean pondered the merits of lying to Ellen and seeing if he would get lucky this time. He determined, after a quick moment of introspection, that he had a snowball’s chance in Hell of pulling one over her. She’d already called him out once. “I don’t know if I can tell you,” he said finally, glancing around Lucifer’s main room. Several of the rescued angels sat together in a corner, one gesturing animatedly—no doubt to make up for his mangled tongue—as they poured over some game. They were definitely within earshot.

Ellen’s range of vision was limited by the confines of the vidcom, but she seemed to understand. _“State secrets. I’ve got it.”_ The woman shook her head, her brow furrowing worriedly. _“Well, if you can tell me, do. The more we know, from_ all _ends, the more ammunition we have to keep things going our way.”_

It wasn’t so out of line to hope that things would go their way. They were on a pretty solid track—more progress has been made in the past month than PAP had made in all its previous years. “I’ll keep you posted,” Dean promised.

With that, there wasn’t much else to say. After a few overly long minutes of awkward pseudo conversation, Ellen disconnected, leaving Dean alone in the room.

Well, alone was the wrong word. As wary as the rescued angels—and hell, as wary as most of the free born angels—were of him, he was still surrounded by people. Still, it was hard to not feel disconnected, cut off from everyone he knew.

He could call his parents, or Charlie or Pamela or Ash. Garth might have some funny stories to take his mind off things, and Bobby hadn’t yet called to rip him a new one for bringing Castiel’s story to light in the first place. Jo was always happy to hear from him, and he really should take the time to get to know the new PAP sympathetic reporter.

Dean glanced at his vidcom, and shoved it into his pocket. Yeah, there were all sorts of people he could call for company, but even as isolated as he felt, the idea of going through another round of questions held no appeal to him.

The sun had set, and the room was lit only by glowing glass orbs set deep into the walls, when Lucifer returned. Dean was hazy on what exactly the angel did when not acting as a council member, though if he was remembering what Samael had said about the man, he held some sort of warrior position. Part of Dean wanted to ask why an isolated culture such as the angels kept around so many warriors, but he wasn’t sure he would like the answer. Maybe angels sometimes fought intertribal wars? Humans used to do stuff like that before the unification of countries under the World Government, he knew.

Lucifer greeted Dean with a nod, calling something to the other angels in the room. Dean shook his head; he was just going to have to learn Enochian—at least a few basic words and greetings. The couple that Samael had taught him still felt foreign and meaningless on his tongue. With the possibility of angels going to war against humans, it looked like he was going to be sticking around for a while. Sure, Ellen hadn’t ordered him to stay, but she didn’t have to.

It was funny, Dean thought as he sat off to the side while Lucifer joined in the game the other angels had found. Samael—Sam, Sammy, his long lost little brother—had returned to the human world to speak on behalf of the angels, and he had found himself a lone human amongst angels, fighting for the same thing. It was a hell of a weird coincidence, he decided, but a pleasant one. He could live with this twist of fate.

0o0o0o0o0

Calls from Ellen came every day, a grounding lifeline that kept Dean tied to the events of the human world. Ellen rarely had anything to say on the subject of Samael’s and Gabriel’s meeting with parliament, reminding him every time he asked that politics was a slow, clunky machine, better suited for long-term squabbling than any immediate action. It was frustrating, but Dean knew there was nothing he could do about it.

And then one day, as Dean’s third week with the angels wore on, Ellen did not call.

He waited three days, three agonizing days with no contact, before he tried her again. Static came up on his com, but for whatever reason, he could not get through to her.

He wouldn’t panic. There could be any number of reasons why he could not connect to Ellen. Maybe his com was dying, or maybe something big had happened, big enough to explode communication and mess with the overall system. For all he knew, this was a good sign. Maybe Parliament had freed the angels, and the airways were clogged from too many people calling back and forth. Was that possible? Personalized technology such as coms were not his forte. He’d have to ask Ash, or maybe Charlie.

Dean mentally slapped his forehead as the thought occurred to him. Maybe something was wrong with _Ellen’s_ com—he hadn’t called anyone else. Shaking his head, he pulled up Ash’s contact information and tapped the screen to initiate a call.

Several seconds passed, and for a moment Dean thought that this contact would not go through either. Then his screen blinked green, and Ash’s face rose in perfect holographic clarity.

_“Dean!”_ Ash slurred, eyes slightly glazed, shadows of exhaustion dark against his face. _“Shit, no one called you, did they?”_

Dean swallowed hard. “Tell me that means good news,” he demanded, clutching his vidcom tightly.

Ash shifted nervously. _“Define good news,”_ he said after a moment. _“Things have been crazy. It’s a start, but things have been pretty heavy all around, and I guess you should know that Ellen and the rest of the higher-ups are in jail—”_

“What?” Dean yelped, cutting the other man off. “Ash,” he said, lowering his voice. “What’s happened in the last three days?”

Ash sighed, running a hand through his long, unwashed hair. _“Parliament pulled some half-assed decision,”_ he said. _“Samael and Gabriel are appealing it. Basically the government’s shutting down the breeding farms and letting all the free born angels go, but they’ve said the angels born on breeding farms are still government property and have to stay.”_

Dean cursed loudly, his free hand curling into a fist. “That’s some bullshit,” he snarled, fury coiling in his chest. That was it? All their work, and that was the official decision?

_“No kidding,”_ Ash agreed. _“We staged a protest, of course. Apparently Big Brother’s getting fed up with PAP, though. Arrested the higher ups for stirring up trouble, shut down all the protests.”_ He smiled weakly. _“Don’t know how much you can see, but I’m actually squatting in Kevin’s basement. On the run from the authorities, and all.”_

“You’re not a higher up, though,” Dean protested.

Ash coughed. _“Yeah, well, your old man may or may not have pulled military rank to get some of the angels born on breeding farms out of one of the camps and into our house. Got some testimonies from them, and Charlie and I hacked into the major networks to broadcast them again. Apparently we’re not just getting a slap on the wrist this time. Last I heard Charlie’s out on bail, but I can’t afford that shit.”_

Dean blinked. “Wait, my _dad_ got angels out of a camp?” he asked incredulously. Sure, he knew his father had been highly ranked in the military, but everyone knew that the military was just for show. It had been for centuries. Dean didn’t think they had any power. And his father, of all people, going out on a limb to help PAP?

_“Well, they’ve loosened the rules on captive angels, even though they aren’t letting them go. Supervised day trips and stuff,”_ Ash said with a shrug. _“I guess even Parliament knows they’d face a lynch mob of popular opinion if they kept things the same in the hospitals. And Reps do like keeping their seats.”_

Dean shook his head, trying to process the information. “So, Parliament freed some of the angels, but not all of them. They’re trying to justify it by throwing angel rights supporters a bone with “relaxed standards.” Samael and Gabriel are appealing this decision, PAP is protesting, Ellen is in jail, and you and Charlie are wanted criminals for hacking the TV stations with testimony again,” he said slowly. “Did I get that right?”

_“Almost,”_ Ash said. _“I’m the only wanted criminal. Charlie’s not wanted ‘cause she’s out on bail.”_

Dean groaned, slumping. _“It’s more than we had before,”_ Ash reminded him. _“It’s a start.”_

“It’s not good enough,” Dean muttered, his face twisting with derision.

“I agree.” Dean jumped, spinning around. Lucifer stood in the room’s doorway, watching him with steady eyes. “If your council thinks that this is an acceptable solution, then there is no point in waiting for humanity to do the right thing.”

_“Dean? Who’s that?”_

Dean gulped, glancing down at Ash. “Call you back,” he muttered, cutting the call and stuffing the com into his pocket. He grimaced, turning his gaze to Lucifer. “It’s not final,” he said, staring pleadingly at the angel. “Samael and Gabriel are petitioning Parliament. There’s still a chance—”

“We’ve given humanity so many chances,” Lucifer said coolly. “I believe that you are a good man, Dean, and that you would do the right thing if you were a leader of your people. It seems that the rest of humanity is not so righteous.” Lucifer straightened his shoulders and took a step towards Dean, folding his arms across his chest. “I will hold an emergency, private council meeting with Raphael and Michael. You will attend.” It wasn’t an invitation, Dean could tell.

Warily, Dean took a step back. “If you’re meeting with them to make war plans—”

“Yes.” There was no hesitation in Lucifer’s voice. “We’re done waiting. We waited patiently for your council, and this was their decision. I would say a little retaliation is in order. Be glad that I will be bringing you to this meeting to give any input whatsoever, rather than recommending that the angels launch a full scale assault against humanity without care for anyone who may be innocent in your council’s decision.” Lucifer’s eyes flashed angrily. “It is more courtesy than we were ever given.”

Dean shook his head. “I can’t help you plan a war,” he said fervently. “Not when so many people would get hurt. Not just humans—angels too.”

Lucifer’s lips thinned. “We know the risks,” he snapped. “And we are tired of living at the whims of humanity. If you choose not to come to this meeting, I will not force you, and I guarantee that innocent human lives will be lost along with the guilty. That is the nature of war, when we do not understand our enemy. If we do not know where to concentrate our attacks, then everything must be a target.”

Dean swallowed hard, his mind racing. If he went to this meeting with Lucifer, there was a chance that he could convince the council that war was a bad idea. “All right,” he said finally, hoping desperately that this wasn’t the worst decision he had ever made. “I’ll give my input. When are we having this meeting?”

“Now,” was Lucifer’s terse response. The angel stepped forward and seized Dean’s arms. “It will be too slow for you to climb. I will fly you to Michael’s set, and you will wait while I summon Raphael.”

Dean nodded, cold dread pooling in his insides. Parliament’s decision had been enough of a blow. No matter how hard he tried, he could not see this emergency council meeting ending well, for the angels or for humanity.


	15. Compromise and Bloodshed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Parliament's decision in regards to the angels is unacceptable, and Samael and Gabriel stay to appeal the decision. However, word of the verdict has already reached the angels, and war is imminent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been looking forward to this chapter for MONTHS. So much fun to write. Difficult, towards the end, because fight scenes have never been my forte, but fun nonetheless. Certain friends of mine think that this chapter has me slated for a beat-down, and I'm curious as to whether or not you all agree. Nothing to worry about, of course not!
> 
> Warning: Violence.

Nervous anticipation churned in Samael’s stomach as the heavy wooden doors swung open, signaling that it was time to enter. He threw a reassuring look at Gabriel, who looked just as sick as he felt. “We’ll be fine,” Sam assured the angel, who gave him a tiny smile. He got the feeling that Gabriel believed his words about as much as he did.

But there was no point in standing in the hall, waiting for their nerves to abate. Nothing but a solid, final answer on the fate of the angels would do that, and after weeks of sitting around hoping for _Parliamentary_ summons, Samael was ready to get the meeting over with. He took a deep breath and drew his shoulders back, following Gabriel into the large, open meeting room.

Having hundreds of humans staring down at him was every bit as intense and nerve-wracking as it had been the first time. Samael clasped his hands nervously in front of him, struggling to stand still, as the human council brought itself to order and went through their traditional opening statements. Samael swallowed hard as he glanced at the multitude of faces around him. Some were impassive, others downright displeased. He wondered how that boded for the decision at hand.

Finally, a tall, pasty human rose, staring down his aquiline nose at the figures on the floor. _“Gabriel Fastblade and Samael Speechbearer, the World Parliament has come to a conclusion regarding the fate of the angels and the medical community,”_ he began, deep voice rumbling through the room. Samael straightened, his eyes darting to Gabriel. Tawny wings fluttered with anticipation, but apart from that nervous movement, Gabriel stood still, his feet spread slightly in a strong, regal stance.

The speaker glanced down at a sheaf of papers before continuing. _“In regards to the angels, Parliament has seen fit to draw a distinction between angels born among your tribes and angels born among humanity. All angels wrongfully seized from their homes will be released and allowed to return to their homelands. All angels born among humans will remain here, to continue to serve the medical community, until such time as modern medicine has developed the means to compensate for their absence.”_

_“Excuse me?”_ Gabriel burst out, drawing his wings up in a signal of challenge. _“You’re going to continue to enslave our people?”_

The human frowned, glaring down at Gabriel. _“Mr. Fastblade, please remain silent until Parliament has finished delivering its decision,”_ he ordered, his voice tight. _“This being said, Parliament is willing to make some concessions towards all angels born at government behest. All training camps, testing facilities, and breeding farms will be permanently shut down. Parliament will put forth a committee to develop communities for the angels born amongst humans. They will be allowed to live quietly in these communities and interact with each other, and will be fairly compensated for their work. They will be bestowed the rights of salary and a limitation of sixty hours per week in the hospitals, the rest of their time given to them to do as they see fit. Basic laws of protection and limited personhood will be drawn up to ensure that these strictures are not abused. Until such time as the medical community can function without the use of the angels, all angels born among humans will be fitted with microchips, to allow them freedom of movement while ensuring that they do not leave the cities to which they are assigned, or refuse to comply with their assigned days at the hospitals.”_ The man cleared his throat and shuffled the papers, closing his eyes for a brief moment. _“These new laws will be in effect as of January first, 2787. Until that time, all angels will be returned to the hospitals in small groups, allowing both the angels and the medical community to acclimate to the new laws before they are put in place.”_ The man glanced down, his eyes skating over Samael to rest upon Gabriel. _“It is Parliament’s hope that this is an acceptable compromise.”_

_“Acceptable compromise?”_ Gabriel demanded furiously, clenching his fists. _“No, it’s not.”_

_“Parliament did not have to be so kind.”_ A tall, blonde woman rose from her seat, a smile playing across her cruel features. Dimly, Samael recognized her as one of the ones who had spoken against the angels in their previous meeting. She had had some choice words about Gabriel, if he recalled correctly. _“This is a temporary measure, to ensure that all parties are satisfied.”_

_“Thank you, representative Matoile,”_ the original speaker said irritably. He stared down at Samael and Gabriel. _“It is the hope of the World Government that this is a suitable compromise. Should you wish to appeal the decision, speak now, and we will form a committee to hear your counter proposal.”_

Gabriel opened his mouth, and Samael cut him off with a sharp look. _“We wish to appeal,”_ he said, smothering the fury that twisted about his chest. He needed to be strong, to come across as rational and reasonable—especially after Gabriel’s outbursts. _“Set up your committee. Gabriel and I will speak to them immediately.”_

The speaker smiled indulgently. _“Setting up the committee will take time, Mr. Speechbearer,”_ he said slowly. _“Parliament will contact you at your hotel just as soon as we have vetted the appropriate members to treat with you.”_

“This is _bullshit,”_ Gabriel hissed, glaring furiously at the speaker. “I hope that your children all fall in love with elk and goats.”

Samael snorted, elbowing Gabriel. “What? They have no idea what I said,” Gabriel protested, folding his arms across his chest.

_“Parliament requests that all proceedings take place in English, for the comprehension of all the representatives,”_ the speaker cut in, his lips turning down slightly.

_“Oh, I’m sorry,”_ Gabriel snapped. _“I forgot that we’re supposed to treat with you, not you with us. Should I thank you for your kindness in daring to let a few of us go free?”_

_“Gabriel,”_ Samael muttered. He had a few choice words for the human _Parliament_ himself, but what if speaking frankly left a mark against them? He turned to face the speaker, hoping that his expression conveyed the depths of his fury towards this human decision. _“Create your committee, then. Do not keep us waiting like you did for this meeting.”_

_“Parliament will act with all due haste,”_ the speaker replied, again flashing that indulgent smile. Oh, Samael would not mind ripping the lips from the man’s face—but that would accomplish nothing, he reminded himself. _“You are dismissed.”_

Samael took a deep breath, collecting his thoughts. “Come on, Gabriel,” he muttered, reaching for the angel’s hand and tugging.

Gabriel glared over his shoulder, but allowed Samael to lead him from the room. The doors closed behind them, and the angel launched into a furious string of expletives, some Enochian, some English, some particularly impressive sounding words that Samael had never heard. Finally, red-faced, Gabriel turned to Samael. “Can you believe this?” he demanded, his voice quivering with rage. “They think this is an acceptable compromise? A compromise! Sure, let go of the people they kidnapped, but keep their children—a compromise!” Gabriel slammed his fist against the wall, breathing hard.

Samael nodded, taking a deep breath. “It’s not okay,” he began.

“Understatement of the _century_!” Gabriel barked.

“But,” Samael continued, “there’s an appeal. This won’tbe the final decision.”

Gabriel stared at him, face twitching. “What makes you so sure?” he demanded. “Their first oh-so-reasonable and generous ‘compromise,’ maybe? This—” he took a deep breath. “This is human nature, Samael. Take, and take, and make you thank them for it.”

Samael gritted his teeth, and Gabriel’s face fell slightly. “Maybe not human nature,” he amended, laying a hand on Samael’s shoulder. “You’re not like that. But that’s how humans who grew up with humans are. It’s sickening.”

Well, that much Samael had to agree with. Apparently, reasonable persons like Dean and Ellen were a rare breed. “Gabriel,” he said slowly, “do you want to go home? Someone needs to report this to the Council of Three. I can handle the appeal.” He offered a tiny smile, and wished it were sincere. He would miss Gabriel, if the man chose to left. “The whole reason you came along in the first place was to help me with _English,_ and I think I’m all right now.”

Gabriel took in several deep gulps of air. “No,” he said finally. “I’m staying to see this through. Besides, I don’t really want to take this news home.” He shook his head. “There’d be war, and we’d probably lose. Let’s see how the appeal goes before it gets to that point.”

Samael nodded—it made sense. Impulsively, he threw his arms around Gabriel and pulled the other man close, careful to slide his arms under the angel’s wings. “We’ll work it out. Somehow.”

Gabriel nodded, resting his head against Sam’s chest. “Yeah,” he said shakily. “We will.”

_We have to._ It hung in the air, unspoken, but no less poignant, no less relevant. _Parliament’s_ decision would not stand with the angels; Samael did not want it to. At the same time, if they couldn’t resolve the matter through the human legal system, violence would be the only answer. Samael rested his chin on Gabriel’s head, taking comfort from the warm figure against him. Success or war. Samael desperately hoped for the former, but with _Parliament’s_ answer so far from reasonable and acceptable, war seemed increasingly like a possibility.

And if it came to war, he might not be a Fastblade, but he would fight.

0o0o0o0o0

Waiting for summons would never be interesting, but this time, a certain tension clung to the hotel suite, making Samael itch for action. For the first time in several seasons, he trained in new techniques, seeking Gabriel out for practice sessions. As a Fastblade, and one out of practice at that, Gabriel was not highly ranked enough to train warrior recruits—but a Watchkeeper intent on learning a few new tricks, he could do. Samael was certainly skilled in the arts of running and dodging, even wielding a blade against various predatory animals, but warrior’s techniques were new to him. More often than not he ended up on his back, blade wrested from his hand and pressed against his throat.

Though the man did not say so, Samael suspected that Gabriel was glad for the excuse to practice his own techniques. Fifty springs in the hospitals, and much of his warrior training was undoubtedly a hazy memory. Something came to light in the angel when they sparred—a certain calm glee, a crack through Gabriel’s temperamental, flippant mask. The tenth time that Samael wound up pinned to the carpet, point of Gabriel’s blade tilting his chin up, he realized that had circumstances been different, Gabriel would probably be a Soulstealer. At times like that, his blood relationship to Lucifer was all too memorable.

A full week passed before Agent Henriksen came to their suite to inform them that _Parliament_ had formed the committee and was willing to meet the next day. Samael and Gabriel spent the night going over the points they had made, arguing over whether there were any concessions they would be willing to make to the humans. It was a Devil’s Advocate argument; neither could see any purpose in acquiescing to any human demands. Still, they would have to give something—but what?

The sun had nearly risen by the time that Samael and Gabriel finalized their plan. “No compromises,” Gabriel reminded Samael tiredly, clapping him on the shoulder before collapsing onto the mattress, dragged onto the floor of the bedroom.

“No compromises,” Samael agreed. His own mattress was too far away, he decided, lying down beside Gabriel and reaching for a blanket. Henriksen would arrive shortly to take them before the committee, but for now, they needed rest. It would take some fortitude to stand by their demands, after all.

0o0o0o0o0

Rather than hundreds of humans, twenty-five waited in the room when Samael and Gabriel entered. A long, heavy table had been left on the floor, surrounded by plush, regal chairs. Samael shook his head and climbed onto one of the chairs, kneeling awkwardly on the over-stuffed cushion. Beside him, Gabriel sat like a human, folded at the waist with his legs hanging over the edge of the seat. Samael shifted, sliding into the unnatural position. It was more comfortable, given the shape of the chairs.

Only one of the committee members had made any impression upon Samael at the previous proceedings. He struggled to maintain a straight face, to keep his expression neutral and impassive, as _Representative_ Matoilegreeted her fellow council members and spread a stack of papers before her. Of course _Parliament_ would assign someone who had spoken in opposition to the angels to this committee.

Matoile smiled, a bright expression that did not reach her eyes, as Samael and Gabriel settled into their seats. _“Well, now that everyone is here, we can begin,”_ she said pleasantly, folding her hands in front of her. _“Mr. Fastblade, Mr. Speechbearer, we’ll start with you. How exactly would you amend Parliament’s decision to the betterment of both our peoples?”_

Samael glanced at Gabriel, who gave him a tiny nod. They had determined, in their long discussion, that their proposal might sound better coming from a nominal human. _“Parliament has made a decision that the angels cannot stand by,”_ he began, the words formal and stilted in his mouth. _“Release all the angels. It is unacceptable that you keep the children of those you kidnapped as slaves. The compromise set forth by Parliament is not a compromise at all.”_

_“’Slaves’ is a harsh word,”_ Matoile replied mildly, her eyes glinting. _“We’d prefer to think of them as a new class of nurses.”_

_“Semantics,”_ Gabriel butted in sharply as Samael opened his mouth to speak. _“You’re still holding them hostage.”_

Matoile’s lips tightened nearly imperceptibly. _“In any case, you were brought here to propose a compromise, not to overthrow Parliament’s edict entirely,”_ the woman said coldly. _“So compromise.”_

Samael clenched his fists. _“Release all the angels,”_ he repeated, _“and we will request that our council send several Blighthealers to work with your doctors until your own medical practice has recovered. Blighthealers are trained specifically to heal without taking on pain and damage.  They will work freely with your doctors. They will not be kept against their wills, and will be allowed to come and go as they please.”_

One of the representatives leaned forward, resting her elbows lightly on the table. _“Representative Cassie Robinson speaking,”_ she said, her lips turning up in a sincere smile. _“This seems like a fair plan on the surface. How many of these Blighthealers would the angels be willing to send?”_

_“Likely not enough,”_ Matoile cut in before Samael could answer. _“You must understand, Mr. Speechbearer, we have thousands if not millions of hospitals worldwide, and each hospital keeps on staff anywhere from three to twenty angels. Even if you were able to muster up enough angels to send one to every hospital, our medical community would be gutted.”_ She pursed her lips, regarding Samael with hard eyes. _“That said, compromise is clearly necessary. To counter your proposal, we may release each angel born to your people, and of those remaining, set up a lottery system. Cut down the angels kept at the hospitals to, say, two angels at each hospital to which you send a—Blighthealer, was it?—and four at each of the rest.”_ Her eyes flashed. _“None of us relish this situation, Mr. Speechbearer, but this is the best we can offer.”_

Samael gritted his teeth. He had the feeling that her distaste for the situation came not from the idea of keeping captive angels, but from the idea that some might be let go.

Outside the room, several loud thuds sounded, muffled by the doors. Several _representatives_ straightened, looking uneasily at the entryway. “Do you hear that?” Gabriel asked quietly, leaning close to mutter in Samael’s ear.

“I don’t think that’s normal,” Samael whispered in reply, his eyes flicking towards the doors.

_“Attention!”_ Matoile barked, her voice tight. Samael tore his gaze away from the doors to glare at the woman. _“Is this compromise more to your tastes, Mr. Speechbearer?”_

_“Actually, I have a question,”_ another representative cut in.

_“Yes, Representative Elkins?”_ Matoile demanded impatiently.

_“How will we decide which angels to keep in the hospitals and which to release?”_

_“A valid point, Repre—”_

Something dense and heavy slammed against the doors, rattling the hinges. _Representative_ Matoile cut off abruptly, staring at the doors. _“Someone call security,”_ she ordered, a glimmer of unease crossing her face for the first time.

Samael pushed off his chair and rose; Gabriel was on his feet in a flash, wings unfurled and extended defensively. “This isn’t good,” the angel muttered as another crash shook the room. “What do you think—”

With a groan, one of the heavy doors bent inwards, wood splintering, shattering over the crisp, shining floor. Samael’s hand flew to his side, naked and bare without his blade. “Do we leave?” he asked, forcing down panic.

“Leave how?” Gabriel demanded, stepping in front of Samael and palming his own blade. Ordinarily Samael would curse him for bringing the blade to the meeting, but right now, it was reassuring.

One of the _representatives_ screamed, high and shrill, as one of the doors ripped from its hinges, crashing loudly to the floor. Shards of wood scattered across the room, skittering to the edges of the floor. In the doorway stood several angels, none of whom Samael had seen before. They weren’t from his tribe, he realized, goosebumps rippling over his skin. What were they doing here?

The angel at the head of the group stalked forward, powerful muscles rippling under his tunic, the long blade of a Soulstealer clasped tightly in his hand. Samael held his breath as the angel observed the room, eyes landing on Gabriel. “Brother,” he said, nodding perfunctorily. “It would behoove you to know that all of the tribes have united in war against humanity. You are Gabriel of the Northern Mountain Tribes?”

“War has been declared already?” Gabriel demanded, tightening his grip upon his blade.

“Diplomacy has failed,” the angel replied, his lips turning up in a feral grin. “We’re taking revenge on our terms now.”

_“What’s going on?”_ one of the _representatives_ asked, his voice a high squeak. _“Mr. Fastblade? Mr. Speechbea—”_

Almost too fast to see, the angel at the head of the group launched himself forward, his wings thrust out for speed, burying his blade into the speaker’s eye. With that motion, the remaining angels poured into the room, throwing themselves at the representatives.

“Down!” Gabriel shouted, shoving Samael to the floor and standing over him, spreading his wings protectively. “Brothers, sisters, please! Wait!”

Samael took a deep breath, scooting carefully across the floor and pushing himself to his feet. This was out of his league. He swallowed hard, opening his mouth to speak.

A hand yanked hard on his braid, drawing his head back. Startled, Samael yanked free and whirled around, several strands of hair ripping out in the process. Matoile sneered up at him, her face twisted with a sick sort of glee.

_“I think you’ve handed me a win,”_ she hissed. _“No one’s going to vote to free the angels after this.”_

And then she was gone, ducking past the angels and out of the room. Samael shouted for Gabriel, stumbling forward to sprint after her. His feet slipped on the slick floor, sending him skittering into the table. Panting hard, Samael shoved off the table, sliding backwards, directly into one of the attacking angels.

Samael hardly had time to open his mouth. The angel whirled around, the blade in his hand thrusting automatically. For a split second, Samael froze, staring at the angel, and then a burst of pain exploded in his throat. Samael gasped, the world spinning around him as he lifted his hand to his neck. It came away red, slick and tacky with blood. Samael swallowed, and a spasm of pain shot through his neck.

He couldn’t breathe. He was trying, gasping for air, and nothing was entering his lungs. Samael collapsed, his legs crumpling as he sank to the floor. Creator, was he dying? He clutched at his throat, heaving, gasping for air that would not come.

Dimly, he heard Gabriel scream what might have been his name, but he wasn’t entirely sure. Samael shivered, his hands falling from his throat to lie limply on the floor. His vision began to blur, black encroaching on the edges, and he closed his eyes, allowing his limbs to fall slack. What may have been a hand brushed against his face, and Samael allowed unconsciousness to swallow him up.


	16. Open Skies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Faced with the World Government's verdict, Castiel is left with only two options: submit or flee. On the run in the woods, he meets a woman with a horrifying secret.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With luck this signals the end of my unexpected hiatus, at least in terms of this story! I hope to start updating weekly. As always, comments and feedback most appreciated--they are my lifeblood.
> 
> Warning: mentions of rape.

Nothing had truly changed since he’d seen the video aftermath of the original trial, Castiel realized a month or so into his stay at the refurbished camps. Yes, the camps were infinitely better than they had been when he was a child, but after the high emotions and raised hopes that came with the knowledge that there was some semblance of hope for the angels, it seemed like a letdown that they remained corralled and confined to crowded rooms and dusty courtyards, grounded by force fields and living under the strictures of ever present guards. It was better than the hospitals and the lab, Castiel reminded himself, better than anything he could have hoped for. Even so, continued confinement in the camps seemed increasingly like cruelty, like a hostage situation. His body thrummed with restless energy; his wings twitched with the desire to move and spread. Against everything he had told himself, he had allowed himself to hope for freedom—disappointment was the price. That did not make the desperately tense wait for news any more fair.

Aziraphale had not come to him with updates from Crowley since the first trial, and the lack of information made Castiel twitchy and irritable. He snapped at Rachel when she approached him in the courtyard, rebuffed Balthazar when he came to speak to him after the lights-out whistle blew and they were locked in the barracks. Increasingly tense, filled with longing for wide spaces and open air, Castiel withdrew into himself, an isolation filled with dreams of blue skies and open fields.

And then one day, completely unexpected, the verdict reached the camps, and Castiel wondered why he had ever allowed himself to hope.

He knew that he should feel joy for his fellow angels born in freedom when they received the news that they would be released to their homes. When the guards came for Aziraphale and Muriel, he should have rejoiced in their freedom, but all he could feel was a hollow emptiness inside. His friends were classed as a different sort of angel, a kind deserving of freedom. He, on the other hand, was to remain a slave.

When Balthazar came to him that night offering words of comfort and news of an appeal, it was all that Castiel could do to refrain from punching in his stupid, naïve face. They would never be free—not so long as humanity held any technological or numerical power over the angels. A butterfly in a cage, he may have been released from the pins that held him to the wall, but he was no more free than he had ever been. Born into a life of misery and hardship, he stood condemned to pay for sins he had never committed, to serve humanity no matter how it shackled his spirit, how he died with every callous word and cruel implication. And it would only be worse once he was returned to the hospitals.

Freedom was an illusion, and slavery was his lot. Humanity would never let him go.

And when, only a few days after the free-born angels had been released, guards came to take them back to the hospitals, Castiel had no choice but to go with them.

The sun beat down on the back of his neck, a joy he was sure that he would never feel again. Oh, the guards may speak gentle words of developing communities where the angels could live in pseudo freedom, but replacing the barbed wire on his cage with gold was no more than a pathetic consolation prize, mere words spoken to placate the rage that boiled beneath his skin. Helplessly, Castiel stood in line with his fellows, waiting for the cage door to solidly lock before him, a slap in the face when compared to every hope that had crawled beneath his skin. It would have been kinder, he thought, to have kept him in the labs for the rest of his wretched life. This attempt at benevolence, this cruel effort to placate the angels, was no more than another knife to the gut, a wound on top of every other he had received since the day he first came squalling into this horrible world.

_Step. Step_. One by one, the angels before him were pushed to their knees, tracking chips injected into the meat of their necks with a tagging gun _. Step. Step._ He could see the trucks ahead of him, tall, menacing ground cars, the shackles he remembered replaced with bare seats and vinyl belts. They were no less of chains, as far as he was concerned _. Step. Step. Remember to breathe. Breathe, and lift your feet, and walk towards damnation._

The angel in front of him—Nathaniel, if Castiel remembered his name correctly—was pulled to his feet, and though the side of his neck inflamed and reddened, already the swelling was dying down. In a few minutes, there would be no signs that he had been injected with a tracking chip—just the ever present knowledge that it was useless to run. Castiel did not need to be pushed to his knees; his legs gave out, and the guards beside him had to lower him to the ground slowly to prevent him from collapsing.

Castiel’s heart pounded wildly, beating a desperate, thrumming tattoo against his ribcage. There was nothing he could do, he knew, but the idea that he had to fight _somehow_ fought and screamed in his head. What could he do—anything, anything, that would allow him to escape his fate? He struggled to breathe, the world blurring to a blackened smear before him. _Breathe. Breathe. Accept your lot in life._

The warm metal of the tagging gun brushed against his neck, hard and impartial, unyielding. The sun beat down mercilessly on the back of his head. For a split second, time seemed to stop; Castiel was all too aware of the slim, fragile hand on the trigger of the gun, the miniscule slip of a woman that held it. The guards beside him were well muscled, but their grips on his arms were slack, inattentive. He was just another number in a sea of many, with no special care taken to ensure that he cooperated—and _what,_ he wondered, was holding him back? Stun guns? Superior numbers? All his life he had been subjected to such methods of force, and unless he did something _now,_ that was all that his future would hold.

A burst of adrenaline rushed through his veins. A choked scream escaped from his throat as Castiel leapt to his feet and backwards, wrenching free of the hold of his captors. In front of him, the woman with the tagging gun jerked, firing the gun on reflex; a tiny chip fell to the ground, small and innocuous. Breathing hard, Castiel staggered backwards, glaring at the guards. “No,” he hissed, his voice wavering. “No! I won’t do this!”

“35712, please calm down,” one of the guards began, taking a step towards him.

_“No!”_ Castiel repeated, his voice a hoarse scream. He took a step back, then another, and then he turned, sprinting past the guards and for the gates, so close, so very much in reach.

A bolt from a stun gun grazed past his leg. Castiel stumbled, but he was too close, too close to escape. With his leg numb beneath him, he struggled to run forward and collapsed, his hand inches from the open air beyond the compound. Gasping, Castiel pulled himself across the ground, panic racing through his mind. He needed to get out, he needed to get out, _he needed to get out he needed to get outheneededtogetout—_

A heavy boot came down between his shoulder blades, and Castiel screamed his frustration. “For God’s sake, don’t be daft, angel,” a familiar voice muttered in his ear. Crowley. “You’ve got wings, you sorry sap. _Use them.”_

Wings. All his thoughts about flying, and not once had he thought to take to the open air. The camp itself was covered by a force field, but beyond the boundaries of the walls and gates—

Castiel threw himself to his knees, knocking Crowley’s foot from his back. Furiously, he reached for the wall and seized it with shaking fingers, using his arms to drag himself out of the complex. Shaking with fear and adrenaline, Castiel hauled himself to his feet and unfurled his wings, stretching them to their full span for the first time in his life. Muscles groaned with the stretch, cramped ligaments screamed at the new position, but he did not have time to worry about the pain. Grunting, Castiel bent his good leg and pushed off the ground, flapping wildly, praying to the creator and any other deity that this skill was innate and natural, not something that would take practice.

A shot from the stun gun breezed past him by inches, and Castiel yelped, dodging clumsily. He could not be more than a few feet from the ground; desperately, he flapped, struggling to gain altitude. It was hard work, harder than he could have imagined; while each motion took him another several feet from the ground, it was too taxing, too slow. It would only be a matter of time before the guards recovered from their shock and began aiming to hit.

And then a breeze, a tiny undercurrent, caught under his wings. Instinctively, Castiel shifted, allowing the breeze to carry him forward far more quickly, with far less effort, than flapping alone had done. Sweat poured down his face as he fought to climb, to gain altitude and catch a stronger current. Even with the exertion, something in him sang praises, delighting in the foreign motions. Difficult, painful, unnatural, flight was the most freeing thing he had ever done. Castiel gritted his teeth and pushed upwards, until he caught a current strong enough to support him. Holding his breath—what if this went wrong?—Castiel ceased his upward movement and gave a single flap of his wings, allowing the current to propel him through the air.

The speed was exhilarating, faster than Castiel had ever moved when not in a car. The wind whipped through his hair and ruffled his feathers, cool and refreshing in contrast to the heat of the sun and dry air. He couldn’t take the time to truly enjoy himself, but as he flew, he chanced a glance behind himself, veering slightly off course. Below him, humans the size of ants scurried around, their exact motions too small, too far away, for him to see. Somehow, Castiel knew that he was out of their range.

He had done it. Castiel could not hold back the laugh that burst from his lips as he veered higher and higher, further and further from the camps. The currents carried him forward, ushering him through the sky, away from that cramped, stinking Hell. Castiel moved with them, flying far, far away from the camp, willing to go wherever the currents took him.

It could not have been more than an hour before Castiel felt a slight pop in his wing joint, followed by a screaming pain. He hissed, flattening his wings slightly and allowing himself to slowly descend, camouflaged by trees and foliage. In the distance, the mountains stood tall, a welcoming beacon signaling safety. Gabriel’s tribe was from the mountains, he remembered. If he could just get there, then he could find the angels. Castiel landed hard, his stunned leg tingling with muted sensation as he hit the ground. He would walk, he decided, until he reached the mountains. He did not want to risk injury by flying too soon after the noise of protest his wing had made.

Quietly, Castiel slipped through the foliage, leaves and branches giving way beneath his feet, his bad leg dragging slightly. It seemed he was far enough from human civilization that he did not need to remain completely silent, but better to be cautious and avoid drawing attention to himself.

He made it surely at least a mile before he stopped to rest, sinking down onto a fallen tree. With his adrenaline high wearing off, Castiel realized just how thirsty he was. He would have to find water, or maybe it would rain soon. The cloudless sky was not promising, but there had to be some sort of stream nearby. Nothing could grow without water. Castiel surveyed his surroundings, wondering exactly how he should go about looking for a stream, a creek, something. He would be all right for the night, he decided, but much longer without anything to drink and he would be in trouble.

A crack to his left drew Castiel’s mind away from water. He staggered to his feet, flaring his wings and puffing himself up instinctively. If it was an animal, he would be all right. If not…

Castiel’s heart stuttered and cold fear washed over his limbs as a human woman moved into view, her hands held out in a gesture of peace. “Hey,” she said softly as Castiel took a step back, his calves pressing against the fallen tree. “It’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you.”

An animal would have been fine. Another angel would have been a blessing. But a human… Castiel swallowed hard, taking in the woman, his eyes lighting on the stun gun clipped to her belt. “Leave,” he ordered, his voice crackling dryly. “I do not want to hurt you.”

The woman’s eyes softened. “I know,” she said slowly, halting several feet away from him. “I know. It’s okay. I’m not going to turn you in.”

She probably thought that he was free-born. Castiel frowned, folding his arms across his chest. “Then leave me,” he said coldly.

“Actually, I could use your help,” the woman said, clasping her hands in front of her. “Not the way you’re thinking,” she added as Castiel paled, drawing his wings tightly towards his back. “My name’s Daphne. What’s your name?”

It was a trick. It had to be. Castiel stared at her, searching for any sign of deception. “Castiel,” he said slowly, squinting at her. “What do you want from me?”

The woman squirmed slightly under his scrutiny. “It’s difficult to explain,” she said finally. “Will you come with me? Please?”

“No.” Now that was an answer that Castiel did not have to think twice about.

The woman—Daphne—sagged slightly. “I know you don’t trust me,” she said, “and I don’t blame you. Please, Castiel. I can’t go to another human with this. They’d kill—” she broke off, raising a trembling hand to her lips.

Kill what? Her? Was she a fugitive, on the run like him? “What do you need?” he asked coolly.

“It’s my brother,” Daphne said carefully. “He’s dying. Please, I’m not asking you to heal him, but could you at least—at least be with him? It would mean so much.”

That made no sense. “Why would that mean anything?” he asked, curious in spite of himself.

Daphne gulped. “I never thought—but looking at you—” She hesitated, closing her eyes as though to compose herself. “I think you’re related.”

There was silence for a moment as Castiel worked through her words, her foolish, ridiculous words. “You think that your brother is related to an angel,” he said finally, swallowing back the desperate, hysterical laughter that threatened to spill from his lips.

“I know he is,” Daphne said softly, “and you’re the spitting image of him. Same eyes, same hair, same face—”

“I have no relation to your _human_ brother,” Castiel spat bitterly.

“Yes,” Daphne agreed, her voice tiny, “but he’s not human.”

0o0o0o0o0

He shouldn’t be doing this. Castiel sat awkwardly at a rough-hewn wooden table and accepted a glass of water with trembling hands. On the couch at the other side of the room lay a boy, surely just a teenager, pale and wasted, his dark hair plastered to his face with sweat. His face, twisted in pain, was marked by the same lips, the same cheekbones, the same chin as Castiel’s own. If he were to open his eyes, Castiel was sure that they, too, would be blue, maybe even the same shade as his own.

The most striking part to the man’s wasted appearance, however, was the ragged and unkempt jet-black wings that hung limply from his back, spilling from the couch and onto the floor.

Daphne settled across the table and stared at the floor, running a fingertip over her own mug. “My father worked at one of the breeding farms about forty years ago,” she said by way of explanation. “Regulations weren’t so tight back then. He—oh, this is awful.” She glanced at Castiel and quickly directed her gaze towards the man on the couch. “He wanted one of the female angels, so he—well. He knew no one would penalize him for taking what he wanted, so he did. And nine months later, when Emmanuel was born, he was just catalogued as another angel. But he couldn’t heal. So they did some genetic tests, and he—” She shuddered. “He’s my father’s son.”

Castiel swallowed hard, staring at the boy, who moaned pitifully. “Your father had a child with an angel,” he said quietly. He had never heard of such a thing, though he could not say that it was surprising. He doubted that the boy’s mother was the first angel woman to be forced by one of her captors. The boy’s mother. Was she his mother? Was this sickly, dying, half-human child his brother?

“Yes,” Daphne replied, her voice cracking. “And they were going to kill him. Because he’s clearly not human, but if he can’t heal like an angel then he’s… Defective.” She laughed bitterly. “Everything else about him is angel. Wings, growth rate, age rate, but he can’t heal, and that’s all they wanted from the angels. The had him slated for termination, so my father took him and ran. Yeah, maybe he didn’t give a damn about the angels, but Emmanuel is his son.” She shook her head. “So he built this cabin and raised us here. Homeschooled us. And he never treated Emmanuel any differently than me. He always said, before he went, that he was wrong to have done this, that the way the angels were treated was wrong. And since he died, it’s just been me and Emmanuel. Now Emmanuel is dying, and I—I’ll be alone.” She swallowed hard. “It’s not being alone that scares me. It’s knowing that Emmanuel is going to die without knowing anyone but me and our father. He’s never going to get to see the world, or even see another person.”

Castiel nodded and set his empty cup on the table. He couldn’t believe he was doing this, but in some ways, Emmanuel’s sad story put his own to shame. “I will help him,” he said, rising from his chair. “In return, please help me get up the mountains. I would rather not die of thirst on my way home.” Were the mountains his home? They were closer to a home than any place the humans could ever set up.

“Thank you,” Daphne breathed. Castiel offered her a tiny smile and then made his way over to the couch.

The boy moaned, his eyes cracking open at the sound of Castiel’s footsteps. “This is heaven?” he asked, the words slurred, fevered. “C’n I see Dad?”

So that was what it was like to care about family. Maybe Castiel would understand someday. He crouched awkwardly beside the boy, ignoring the cold dread that lodged in his stomach. Never had he healed anyone of his own volition. Maybe this was what freedom meant. “Emmanuel,” he said clumsily, “you’re not dead.”

“Oh.” The boy closed his eyes and exhaled, a low, rattling breath. “Okay.”

Castiel’s hand shook as he reached for the boy’s forehead. He could feel the infection thrumming through the boy’s veins, a combination of built up illnesses, made worse by lack of proper treatment. Surely even without the angels, human medicine could cure this. But would a doctor even bother to treat a half-angel child? Castiel doubted it. Steeling himself, he pressed his fingers firmly against the boy’s skin and pulled, concentrating on bringing the child’s sickness into himself.

It started with chills, waves of cold and heat running through his body with fierce intensity and then burning out, blinking away as his own immune system crushed them. Then came a harsh headache, obliterated before he could truly feel it. His lungs filled with fluid, almost instantly expunged, and something sick and twisting gnawed at his stomach before vanishing. Far from the worst healing he had ever given. Castiel took a step back and gazed down at the boy, something akin to relief thrumming beneath his skin.

The boy shifted, his eyes fluttering fully open. “Daphne?” he croaked, reaching past Castiel.

“I’m here.” Daphne scurried past Castiel and knelt beside her brother. “Oh God, Emmanuel. I thought… I thought you were…” She took a shuddering breath and reached for her brother’s hand. “Thank you, Castiel.”

He was not used to being thanked. “You said you’d help me get to the mountains,” he reminded her, shifting awkwardly.

“Yes,” Daphne said, nodding. “I have a car. I can drive you. Where do you need to go?”

Castiel hesitated. “I don’t know,” he said slowly, “but I am sure I will find it.” How big were the mountains? They looked so manageable from a distance, but he was sure that actually finding the angels would be no small task. To escape notice from humanity, they would have to be well hidden.

“I’ll supply you,” Daphne said, wiping her face on her sleeve. “Water, food… Clothes. You’ll want something other than that.” She gestured at the rough-woven pants and shirt that covered Castiel’s body. “Emmanuel has clothes that will let your wings through.”

“Thank you,” Castiel said quietly. “And thank you for not reporting me.”

Daphne hiccupped, shaking her head. “Like I could, even if I wanted to,” she said, her voice wavering. “Someone could find Emmanuel. And this—all of this is wrong. You’ve got to get away from people, Castiel. Find the other angels, and put a stop to all this.”

“Did you save me?” Castiel’s attention was drawn to the half human boy, who struggled to sit up. “Thank you for saving me.”

“I—” Being thanked would take some getting used to. “You’re welcome,” he replied after a pause.

“Come on.” Daphne rose and extended a hand towards Castiel. He allowed the woman to help him to his feet, ruffling his wings slightly. “We’ll get you kitted up and take you to the mountains.” Her eyes sparkled with hope and sadness and unshed tears. “Find the angels, Castiel. For all of us.”


	17. Days of War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucifer brings Dean to an emergency meeting with Michael and Raphael. The meeting does not go as Dean had hoped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is my lifeblood.

Flying was exhilarating to some extent, but mostly it was terrifying. He did not like it in the slightest, Dean determined, as Lucifer set him down on a platform high in the trees, wrapping around a large, stately structure. Michael’s set, as Lucifer had called it, was at least the size of his house back home, and surely three times the size of Lucifer’s own dwelling. He wasn’t sure entirely if that was significant. Michael probably ranked higher than Lucifer, or something. Angel politics—that was a weird thought. Way more up Ellen’s alley than his to figure out how they worked.

Lucifer pushed open the door and grabbed Dean’s shoulder, roughly steering him inside. Dean tried not to gape as he took in the surroundings, so different from Lucifer’s home. Where Lucifer’s furniture and decorations were made of functionally carved wood and neatly tanned hides, Michael’s set was much more sumptuous, crammed with delicately carved furniture, the floors and tables covered with tightly woven cloths. Dean had been impressed and intrigued by the glowing glass orbs that provided light in Lucifer’s home, but they were nothing compared to the ornately blown stained-glass shapes that sparkled with fractal light, casting shadows and patterns over the walls and floors of Michael’s home. If angels had consumer consumption, than Michael was far more prey to it than Lucifer. Dean suppressed a giggle at the thought. God, he was going crazy—this was not where his mind needed to be.

“Michael!” Lucifer bellowed, followed by a string of fast paced Enochian words. An ornately woven cloth separating the main room from one further back moved, and Michael strode forth, adjusting his tunic slightly as he moved.

Michael and Lucifer exchanged words for several long, dizzying moments, before Michael waved Lucifer off. “Do not touch anything,” Lucifer muttered to Dean before turning on his heel and striding towards the door.

Dean fidgeted awkwardly, unnerved at being left alone with a powerful angel and no way to communicate. Michael stared at him for several long moments before beckoning Dean forward and gesturing at a soft looking pillow on the ground. Dean settled cross-legged on the cushion, shifting slightly as Michael sat down across from him, watching him curiously.

There was something Dean could not name in the angel’s gaze, something hard, almost predatory. He found himself staring back at the angel, taking in his strong face and bright, gleaming eyes. In some ways, Michael reminded him of the pictures he had seen of his father in his youth. That was something he could focus on. Maybe associating Michael with his father would settle his nerves.

It didn’t. Feeling more scrutinized than ever, Dean tore his eyes from the angel’s face and allowed them to land on his wings, strong and regal and powerful looking. Okay, that was still unsettling—almost as much as the long, sharp blade fixed to the angel’s belt. Dean flinched as Michael ran a finger over the blade and looked up into the angel’s face; Michael smiled and said something, his words low and soothing. Dean was not comforted.

It seemed as though hours had passed before the door swung open again and Lucifer re-entered the room, followed by his fellow third council member. If Michael looked at Dean like a curiosity, mildly entertaining prey, then Raphael’s gaze was even less comforting. Raphael stared at Dean with an expression akin to finding a cockroach in the pantry. Dean shuddered and glanced at Lucifer, hoping that the angel would have something to say to soothe his nerves.

“I hate translating,” Lucifer said, “but it cannot be helped. I will explain the situation to Michael and Raphael, and we will determine our course of action from there. You will remain silent until I ask you for your input.”

“Right,” Dean muttered, sinking back slightly into the cushion. Of course it was too much to hope that he would be allowed to head off the discussion.

Lucifer spoke first, his tone grave as he filled his fellow angels in on the situation. Through his speech, Michael’s face remained impassive, while Raphael’s frown deepened, his face twisting with rage as Lucifer talked and gestured. Finally, Lucifer sat back, silent, waiting.

Dean longed to know what exactly Lucifer had said, but before he had the chance to ask, Raphael was speaking, and then Michael, and then Lucifer again. At least an hour passed as he waited for Lucifer to address him, shifting uncomfortably as Raphael’s voice grew louder and louder, as Michael’s face tensed and tightened. Finally, Lucifer turned to Dean. “It is war,” he said coolly. “You will tell us where to concentrate our attacks, to minimize damage done to the innocents. I am sure that even your people have their innocents,” he added bitterly.

“You can’t.” Dean straightened, clenching his fists. “Not just because I don’t want people to die,” he added hastily as Lucifer’s expression darkened. “It’d be a slaughter. Unless you’ve got some major guns hidden away around here, you’ve got no chance against the world military.” Yeah, there had not been war among humans in centuries and even the most skilled officers had probably never fired more than a stun gun, but no way was he going to tell the angels this.

“Do not presume to tell me about human guns,” Lucifer snapped, brushing his fingertips over the scars that mottled his face. “I am well acquainted with their effects. I did not ask you for your input on whether or not there will be war. I asked you for your help in minimizing the damages taken on both sides.”

“But—”

Dean cut off as Raphael leapt to his feet, a growl edging from between his lips. Dean gulped as the angel snarled something at him, voice low and menacing. If the angel decided to attack him, he was screwed.

Lucifer said something sharply, drawing Raphael’s attention. A short exchange, and Raphael sank back to his knees on the cushion, glaring at Dean.

“Be mindful of your words,” Lucifer said calmly, not looking at Dean. “You are on very, very shaky ground here, human. There are those among us who would see all of humanity slaughtered, and you with it. Remember, it is a kindness that we are allowing you here at all.”

Dean shook his head, more to clear his thoughts than to disagree. “Brussels,” he said finally, ignoring the sinking in his gut.

“And what does that mean?” Lucifer asked.

“It’s home of Parliament,” Dean said quietly. “Where the world government meets. It’s in Europe.”

Lucifer nodded. “I am sure that we have angels on the other side of the sea who would know it by sight, if not activity,” he said finally. He turned to address Michael and Raphael, speaking quickly. When he finished, Michael held up a hand and spoke, his words calm and measured, oddly sinister to Dean’s untrained ear.

“What’s he saying?” Dean demanded sharply.

“We could send Hael to the tribes across the sea again, but it would be too slow,” Lucifer replied calmly. “We will ask the Spellcrafters to send a message through their Connections. It will give our people time to mass their forces.”

“Lucifer,” Dean pleaded, “please don’t do this yet. There’s still an appeal. It’s not set in stone that they won’t let the angels go!”

Lucifer glanced at Dean, his expression cold. “Would you take that chance, if humanity was on the line?” he asked icily. “We will not. We have bowed to this torture and fear for centuries. Few angels are left who remember a time before the terror of humanity. Enough.”

“But war is—”

“Necessary.” Dean jumped, startled, as the word slipped from Michael’s lips. He turned to stare at the angel, who watched him with amusement. “Yes, I know some of English, human. Thank you, Lucifer.”

“Right,” Dean said shakily, turning his attention from Lucifer to the other, seemingly more powerful angel. “Then you know why war’s a bad idea?”

“I know some, not all English. I understand not all your words,” Michael said, shaking his head, “but I understand this. War is necessary, human. War will be.”

Dean cursed quietly, shaking his head. “It’s going to be a slaughter,” he said, staring pleadingly from Michael to Lucifer.

“It is already a slaughter,” Lucifer said coldly. “But like this, we have a way to redirect some of the casualties from ourselves onto our attackers. Perhaps then mankind will learn that we are not tools to be trifled with.”

Raphael drummed his fingers impatiently against the floor, and Lucifer turned his attention towards the other angel, exchanging several short sentences. He then turned back to Dean, folding his scarred arms across his broad chest. “We grow impatient,” he said steadily. “This ‘Brussels’ is one target. Where else?”

“I don’t know,” Dean replied through gritted teeth. “Brussels is the powerhouse of politics. Everywhere else is minor.”

“And you are willing to risk civilian casualties by withholding this information?” Lucifer asked, his eyes flashing.

“No,” Dean snapped. “I’m telling you, there’s nowhere you can attack without killing innocent people. And getting yourselves killed too.”

Lucifer nodded. “I see,” he said, pushing himself to his feet. Beside him, Michael and Raphael rose too, towering over him. Dean gulped and scrambled to his feet, backing away slightly. He did not like the way that Michael and Raphael stared at him. “I am sorry, Dean.”

Dean barely had time to take a step back before Michael lunged at him, throwing the full weight of his body against Dean’s chest. Dean grunted, his arms wheeling, and then he fell to the ground with a heavy thud, pinned under Michael’s weight. “Lucifer!” he shouted, struggling as Michael pinned his wrists to the ground with his knees and dipped a hand into Dean’s pockets, tossing aside his coms. “What are—”

“We cannot risk you warning humanity,” Lucifer said, stepping forward and pulling Michael away. He bent forward and seized Dean by the biceps, hauling him to his feet and wrenching his hands behind his back. “I do not blame you for allowing your loyalties to rest with your people, but my loyalties—our loyalties—rest with ours. Any attacks must take humankind by surprise.”

“What are you doing?” Dean demanded, struggling against Lucifer’s grip. “Let me go!” he barked, thrashing wildly as Raphael took a step forward, unknotting the cord that held his tunic to his chest. The cloth flapped loosely against the angels stomach as he whipped the cord around Dean’s torso, securing his arms behind his back. “You’re just going to tie me up and keep me here? After everything I did for you?”

Lucifer sighed and exchanged a glance with Michael. “You did the minimum that decency requires,” he said heavily. “We are not ungrateful. At the same time, we cannot risk our enemy knowing of our plans before we can enact them.”

“Damnit, Lucifer,” Dean snarled, twisting his head around to glare at the angel. “You don’t have to do this!”

“I am afraid that we do.” Lucifer pushed Dean forward, pinning him against Raphael; Dean fought down panic as the angel wrapped strong arms around his waist, further immobilizing him. “I am sorry, Dean. Really, I am. If you change your mind about helping us, we will come to you for information. And as soon as the rest of the angels have been freed, through treaty or through force, we will release you. No harm will come to you in our charge.”

Dean cursed, struggling against Raphael’s iron grip. “What, I’m your prisoner, then?” he spat, stomping hard on Raphael’s sandal clad foot. The angel did not even flinch at the impact.

“I hope it will not be for long,” Lucifer said. Dean shuddered, wrenching at the arms around him, as Lucifer said something and Raphael replied with a few short words.

And then he was moving, dragged across the floor and onto the platform. Raphael released him for a split second and seized him around the thighs, slinging Dean over his shoulder like so much meat. Dean roared in outrage as the angel spread his wings, catching Dean in the jaw, and then with no more than a shift to give him warning they left the platform, soaring through the sky to the caverns atop the mountain.

0o0o0o0o0

As prisons went, he could be in a worse place, for all the comfort that the knowledge gave him. A single glass orb glowed in Dean’s large, spacious stone cell, illuminating smooth walls and a heavy wooden door, fortified by cast iron. In the corner lay a soft leather mattress, covered with plain, tightly woven blankets. Scrolls packed a shelf alongside the wall, for all the good they would do Dean, and on the far side of the room laid some sort of stone plumbing system, covered by a wooden lid. At least they didn’t expect him to piss in a bucket.

Raphael had bodily thrown him into the cell and held him down while he untied Dean’s arms, slamming the door behind him before Dean could even sit up, much less attempt to escape. It had quickly become clear that he wasn’t breaking through the solid wood any time soon. Angels built their prisons well.

He wondered how long they would keep him here. Until their war was done? Until mankind remembered how to wage war and inevitably fought back with bombs and airtanks and viruses engineered to directly attack angels? From what Dean had seen, angels didn’t even have guns. Knives and superior healing abilities would only go so far, especially once the element of surprise was gone.

What kind of world would be left, if they went to war? Dean’s mind flashed back to the pictures and vids from his high school history classes. A world shrouded in fear, people living in bunkers just to escape the radiation, and piles upon piles of bodies—that was war. There was a reason that all the countries had finally united under the world government. Dean felt sick just thinking about it.

Time passed funnily in prison. At first he paced, his mind whirling; he fell into a pattern of sleeping and waking, the days blurring together. At seemingly random intervals, a grim faced angel came by to open the door and pass him food, but apart from that, he saw no one, and no one came to see him.

Even if he decided to cooperate with the angels and help plan their war—and no way he was going to do that—how would he even let them know? This was ridiculous. Less and less often, Dean rose from his pallet; the guard took to leaving his food just inside the door. Sometimes Dean ate; other times, he left it there until the next meal. It didn’t seem like the angels were big on starving their prisoners; he wouldn’t die if he skipped a few meals.

It wasn’t until he had ignored five meals in a row, choosing instead to remain on his mat and stare listlessly at the wall, that he received any sort of recognition towards his behavior. When the door creaked open, Dean assumed that it would be the guard coming to clear away his untouched food and set down his next meal, but instead Lucifer entered the cell, shutting the door firmly behind him.

“You stopped eating.” Lucifer walked to the center of the room and stood, arms folded over his chest. “Are you ill?”

Dean glanced up at the angel and then closed his eyes, throwing his arm over his face. “No,” he said shortly. “I’m just not hungry.”

“I see.” There was silence for a moment, and then the angel spoke again. “I don’t like keeping you imprisoned, Dean. Believe it or not, nothing would delight me more than to be able to set you loose. Please, work with us.”

Dean snorted and rolled over to face the wall. He stared defiantly at the smooth stone, clasping his hands in front of him. “How’s your war going?” he asked abruptly, his lips turning down at his own words.

Behind him, Lucifer took a deep breath. “The first attack was launched upon Brussels three days ago,” he said quietly. “There were many human casualties. The only casualty among our people was a simple sliced throat, easily healed.”

“Good for you,” Dean muttered.

“You act as though I am glad,” Lucifer said, his voice hard. “It was Samael who had his throat sliced.”

It was though he had been doused in icy water. Cold dread clenched in Dean’s heart; the blood in his veins seemed to turn to lead. Shaking, he sat up, twisting around on the bed to stare at Lucifer. “Is he—”

“He is not dead,” Lucifer replied, his voice iron hard. “He got in the way of an attacking angel, and was struck on accident. Gabriel is caring for him now.”

“Yeah?” Dean rose, clenching his fists. “What do Samael and Gabriel think of this war, huh?”

Lucifer’s eyes hardened. “They delight in it just as we do—which means they are saddened by its necessity. They, unlike you and yours, see the need for war in this situation.”

“Really?” Dean snapped. “After Samael almost got killed? You still think this is the way to go?” His voice rose, quavering with rage. “So you killed a few humans—congratulations! All that means is that people are dead, and Sam—” he broke off, taking a deep breath to steady himself.

He had not told Lucifer that Samael was Sam, his brother. Hell, it was still hard to believe it himself. “This isn’t going to solve anything,” he said. “Please, Lucifer. We can figure out another way.”

“If only we could.” Lucifer sighed heavily. “I’ve left orders with Thaddeus to ensure that you eat at least once a day. It would be in your best interests to comply. If you change your mind about consulting with us, ask for me, and I will come.”

Dean glared at Lucifer. “If you’re waiting for me to change my mind, you’re gonna be waiting a long time,” he snapped.

“I understand.” Lucifer’s lips twisted in a humorless smile. “I will keep you informed of any future developments regarding the war.”

There really wasn’t anything he could say to that. Dean dropped onto his pallet, rolling over to glare at the wall. He heard Lucifer leave, and the door clipped shut, locking him in with his thoughts, his fear, his anger.


	18. A Hostage Situation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Samael wakes up, having been healed from the near-fatal wound dealt to him during the angels' attack. He and Gabriel determine that it is no longer safe to remain among humans, and try to figure out a way to get home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter that did not want to come easily, ahaha fun. Joy and happiness? I basically spent the whole time writing this resisting the urge to throw the computer at the wall in hopes that it would move the plot along.
> 
> So, that's that. Trying to set things up a bit more with Sam and Gabriel for the Sabriel that I am determined is going to happen, but apparently I don't know how to write anything but (very, incredibly, snail-like) slow burn? Guh.
> 
> Anyways, I live off of feedback. Please let me know what you think of the chapter, and what, if anything, I could have done to make this one less draggy!

Bright light filtered through his eyelids, disrupting his easy sleep. Samael groaned, curling into a ball, and burrowed his face in his arm. “Turn them off,” he muttered, reaching out blindly for the wall. His fingertips came into contact with empty air. Strange.

“Samael?” Gabriel’s voice was muted and hazy in his ears. “Are you awake?”

He didn’t want to be. Creator, he wanted nothing more than to fall back into blissful unconsciousness, to forget the waking world and soothe the dull ache in his bones. He groaned again, rubbing his cheek against soft fabric.

“Come on, Samael, wake up.” Gabriel’s words sounded sharper this time. Clearly, his search for rest would have to wait. Tiredly, he opened his eyes; the world swam before him briefly before coming into focus. It was the hotel room, he realized. In B.. Bru… Some human city. Where he and Gabriel had been supposed to meet with the human _Parliament’s_ committee—

Samael sat up, ignoring the lurch in his stomach. “Gabriel, what happened?” he demanded, staring at the angel. “We were supposed to meet with their committee today, weren’t we? Are we late? Are—”

“Easy, Samael.” Gabriel came around the bed and slipped an arm around his shoulders, steadying him. “We met, remember? There was an attack.”

Oh. Right. Dimly, Samael remembered the frustrating talks, interrupted by a swarm of unfamiliar angels. Of warriors. And he’d been… Samael raised a shaking hand to his throat, running his fingers over smooth, unblemished skin.

Gabriel tensed slightly with his movements. “Yeah,” he said tightly in response to Samael’s unspoken question. “One of them got you. It was an accident. Healing you up was a bitch, but I’ve had worse.” He drew back slightly, a weak smile playing over his lips. “I talked to their leader—Malachai—before bringing you back here. He’s said that when things are resolved with the humans, he’ll find a proper offer to make to Lucifer in apology for catching us up in this.”

Samael nodded. Gabriel leaned forward and took his hand, clasping it loosely in his own. “Their Spellcrafter is contacting Naomi as we speak. The Council of Three needs to know about this, and you heard Malachai back there—all the tribes are amassing for war. And that means that _we_ need to get out of here.”

War. Samael couldn’t say that he was surprised. “We can’t just leave,” he argued, squeezing Gabriel’s hand and hoping, praying, that he would understand. “Someone’s got to be around for when humans come looking for a truce. Can any of Malachai’s tribe even speak _English_?”

“Don’t know,” Gabriel responded, “and right now, I don’t care. We’ve done our job, Samael. I’m still a Fastblade, which means I’m needed back with our tribe. And _you_ don’t belong on a battlefield—not yet.”

He didn’t have the energy to wonder what Gabriel meant by _not yet._ “Fine,” he agreed, slumping back slightly. “How are we getting home? Even if you’ve got the stamina to fly across the sea, I can’t.” Inwardly, he cursed his lack of wings.

“Malachai’s tribe used to be sea-side, a long time ago, before humanity pushed them inland,” Gabriel said with a shrug. “Apparently they can rig up some sort of boat.”

“Boat?” Samael knew the concept, but… “Gabriel, it would take us months to get home like that, and that’s assuming that we don’t have to hide from humans the whole way.”

Gabriel shrugged, tawny wings rippling. “I never said it was the greatest plan. It’s just an option. If you’ve figured out how those _voicecoms_ work, we could try calling up _PAP.”_

Samael snorted. “I haven’t even figured out how to call _Agent Henriksen_ on it, much less anyone else,” he said.

“Of course,” Gabriel breathed, slapping his forehead. “He’s supposed to be in charge of keeping us safe, right? Well, we’re not safe here. We tell him we need to get to the other side of the sea, and make our way home from there. If we don’t worry too much about attracting human attention, we could be home within a few weeks?”

“Seriously?” Samael raised his eyebrows. “You want to trust a human with getting us home? In a state of war?”

“They don’t know it’s war yet,” Gabriel offered. “They saw one isolated attack. What, do you have any bright ideas?”

He didn’t, and that was the problem. “Okay,” he said finally. “If you have the stamina to cross the sea, you should go. I’ll stay here and keep working on a resolution with the humans.”

“Samael, no,” Gabriel protested, rearing back. “You can’t be serious!” His face fell as Samael met his eyes. “You are. You—you’re actually serious.”

“It makes sense,” Samael replied, ignoring the heaviness that settled in his gut at the idea of remaining in the human city alone. “You won’t be safe here during a war. I don’t know what humans do to their enemies, and I really don’t want to know. But I’m willing to bet it won’t be good.” Gabriel opened his mouth to speak, and Samael plowed forward, raising his voice slightly. “But I should stay. It’s my _job_ to stay, remember? They renamed me from Watchkeeper to Speechbearer for a reason.”

“Creator, Lucifer’s going to have my wings for this,” Gabriel moaned, shaking his head. “You’re not staying here, even if I have to knock you out and carry you home on my back. Even if the humans don’t kill you, Lucifer would kill _me._ And I’m rather attached to my life, thanks.”

Samael shook his head. “Lucifer would understand,” he said.

“Excuse me, have you met my brother?” Gabriel demanded. “Yeah, he’d understand that I left you in some human cesspool to save my own sorry ass! And anyways—” Gabriel broke off, swallowing hard. “Anyways, I don’t want to leave you here to die.”

Samael shook his head again, but a bit of the tension in his gut eased with Gabriel’s words. Gabriel took advantage of his silence and leaned forward, amber eyes blazing with intensity. “We’re going to figure out a way to get home, Samael. Both of us. If that means we do nothing but sit here until we can figure out how these _coms_ work so we can contact our allies on the other side of the sea, we’ll do that. If that means spending months in a boat from Malachai, we’ll do that. If that means contacting _Agent Henriksen_ about the human policy on letting ambassadors go, we’ll do that. But under no circumstances am I leaving you here.”

Samael frowned, thinking it over. “But you could leave now,” he said, more for argument’s sake than any other reason. Gabriel seemed determined to bring Samael home with him. Privately, he was pleased. The idea of getting out of human cities in general and returning to the tribe was enticing, a relief after months away from home.

“Yeah, I can, but I’m not going to.” Gabriel patted Samael on the shoulder. “You’re a good guy for giving me an out, but I’m going to be an even better guy and not take it. So. What’ll it be?”

Samael glanced at the _coms_ on the bedside table. “Let’s see if we can figure out how these work,” he said, reaching out and picking one up.

0o0o0o0o0

In the end, after several hours of fiddling with human technology, Samael and Gabriel managed only to figure out how to contact _Agent Henriksen_ with the _coms._ The ensuing discussion between the two had been short; they would ask for the human official’s help, and if the situation took a turn for the worse, then they would run and seek out Malachai’s tribe. Samael could not say that he was terribly enthusiastic about the plan, but as Gabriel pointed out, it beat sitting around and waiting to find out what humans did with captive enemies.

It took only a few minutes for _Agent Henriksen_ to arrive, dressed in human casual clothing, stun gun prominently displayed at his hip. _“Everything all right?”_ the man asked, relaxing slightly at the sight of Samael and Gabriel, alone and unharmed in the room. _“You haven’t had people come by to give you trouble, have you?”_

_“Not as such,”_ Gabriel said, offering a charming, if false, smile. _“Would you kindly get us in contact with People for Angels for People?”_

_Agent Henriksen_ frowned, folding his arms across his chest. _“Why?”_ he asked, his expression guarded. _“That kinda goes against my job description. I’m really not supposed to put my charges in contact with extremist groups. No offense,”_ he said as Gabriel frowned, _“but PAP’s  been labeled an extremist group by the government for years.”_

Gabriel glanced at Samael, who shrugged. _“We need to confer with our tribe about the direction of these discussions,”_ Samael said, lying through his teeth. _“And to do that, we need to return to our tribe. Gabriel perhaps could cross the sea, but I cannot.”_

_Agent Henriksen’s_ frown deepened. _“I’m gonna have to confer with my supervisor about this,”_ he said, shifting as though uncomfortable. _“Between you and me, I’m not so sure the big-wigs here are gonna be willing to let you go after the terrorist attack this morning. But I’ll do what I can and let you know, all right?”_

It would be ridiculous to be disappointed, Samael reminded himself. They had prepared for a much worse reaction, after all. He exchanged a look with Gabriel, who nodded.

_“Okay. I’ll be back by the end of the day with an answer. You two sit tight, and don’t let anyone else into this room, got it?”_

The human left, shutting the door behind him. A too-loud click rang through the room less than a second after the door closed. Samael swallowed hard. “It could be worse?” he suggested, flexing his hands.

“And it could be better,” Gabriel countered. “We’re not completely screwed yet, at least. What’s with all the _bureaucracy_ anyways? I’m surprised humans even get to wipe their asses without asking permission from some ass-wiping council.”

Samael snorted, amused in spite of himself. “What? Tell me I’m wrong,” Gabriel demanded, quirking an eyebrow at Samael.

“You’re wrong,” Samael replied seriously. “They _do_ have to get permission from an ass-wiping council.”

There was a moment of stunned silence, and then Gabriel burst out laughing, doubling over and clutching his sides. “Maybe there’s hope for you after all,” he choked out, gasping. “Who’d have thought you had a sense of humor?”

“I feel like I should be offended,” Samael muttered.

Gabriel snickered, collapsing on his back on the ground. “Maybe you can snark your way out of this room,” he joked. His grin faded slightly as the weight of his words seemed to sink in. “Is it just me, but the way _Agent Henriksen_ acted, it seems like we’re prisoners now.”

Samael shuddered, his good mood substantially flattened. “It’s not just you,” he said quietly, sinking to his knees to better speak to the angel. “I could be wrong, but I think he locked us in.”

Gabriel sighed. “I’d hoped I’d heard wrong. Well, then!” He craned his neck up to meet Samael’s gaze. “We’ll see how things go down when he gets back, and if worst comes to worst, we bust out the window. You’re not too heavy for me to carry that far.” He slapped Samael’s thigh, lightly pinching skin over solid muscle.

“Thanks?” Samael wished he could share Gabriel’s optimism. “That’s assuming they don’t put guards at the window.”

“Now how would they do that?” Gabriel asked practically, wriggling across the floor and resting the back of his head against Samael’s thigh. “There’s not a ledge for them to stand on. All their flying machines move. Getting out the window will be easy enough, if we have to.”

If they had to. Samael nodded and forced a smile.

“Really, Sammy, don’t sweat it. We’ll get out of here just fine if we have to.”

Sammy. Samael frowned, glancing sharply down at Gabriel. “Why did you call me that?” he asked, an edge to his voice that he didn’t quite intend.

Gabriel quirked an eyebrow at him. “It’s a nickname. Like Luci for Lucifer? Like how some people call me Gabe? No one’s ever shortened your name before?”

Lucifer had called him Sama on occasion during his childhood, but this… Samael shivered. Dean’s parents had called him Sammy. Apparently that had been his nickname when he still lived among humans. He wasn’t sure if he liked it, coming from Gabriel—or coming from anyone.

“Okay, okay.” Gabriel rolled his eyes at the stony look on Samael’s face. “No nicknames. So much for you having a sense of humor.”

“I do have a sense of humor, just… Not that name.” Not with all its unwelcome implications of humanity.

“Spoilsport,” Gabriel muttered, closing his eyes. “You’re a good pillow. Wake me up when _Agent Henriksen_ gets back, will you? For whatever outcome?”

Samael nodded, folding his hands in his lap. “Okay,” he said simply. “I will.”

0o0o0o0o0

The sun was just beginning to set when _Agent Henriksen_ returned. The click of the door unlocking roused Gabriel, and they were both on their feet by the time the human entered the room. _“Did you two even move after I left?”_ the man asked, raising his eyebrows. _“Don’t answer that. It doesn’t matter.”_

Gabriel folded his arms across his chest, mimicking the other man’s pose. _“What did your superiors say?”_ he demanded. _“Will Samael and I be able to make arrangements to go home?”_

The man grimaced. _“Higher-ups want to talk to you before you go anywhere,”_ he said, uncrossing his arms and fiddling with something on his belt. _“Between you and me, that’s not so much talk as interrogation. I’ve got standing orders to keep you in this room until we can get this whole terrorism debacle sorted out.”_

Samael clenched his teeth, glaring at the man. _“So we are prisoners,”_ he said bitterly.

_“Technically, yeah.” Agent Henriksen_ looked displeased. _“Sorry, boys, but I’ve got my orders. As long as I’m here and capable, it’s my job to ensure that you stay put.”_ He pulled a device that looked rather like Dean’s _vidcom_ from his belt. _“Of course, if, say, you were to overpower me, knock me out, and take my com to call someone from PAP to get you out, there wouldn’t be much I could do about it, now, would there?”_

Samael and Gabriel exchanged a glance. _“Or maybe I get caught up talking to you, drop my com, and you use it to call someone up when I leave,”_ the man continued, casually dropping the _vidcom. “Might look a bit bad on my review, but not something I can be fired for, now can I? You get me?”_

_“Very clearly.”_ Gabriel’s grin was nothing short of dazzling. _“You’re a good man, Agent Henriksen.”_

_“Don’t know what you’re talking about.” Agent Henriksen_ offered a short, grim smile. _“I’ll just see myself out and lock you boys in. Whatever you do then is up to you.”_

Samael nodded, taking a step forward and picking the _vidcom_ up from the floor. On the small screen was a list of words, all in _English,_ none of which he could read. Enochian writing and English writing were just too different. He hesitated, and then decided it was worth the risk. _“Can you tell me what this says?”_ he asked, pointing to the highlighted line of words.

_“PAP Representative Agency, Brussels,” Agent Henriksen_ said without even looking at the screen. _“If that’s all, I’m out for the night. Don’t make too much noise.”_

Samael nodded and turned, passing the device to Gabriel. “What do you think?” he asked as _Agent Henriksen_ exited the room, locking the door firmly behind him.

“Worth the risk,” Gabriel said, smiling tightly. “You ready to bust this joint and go home, Sammy—Samael?”

“Very,” Samael said. He hesitated, glancing at the buttons on the side of the device. “Red or green?” he asked.

“Green,” Gabriel said after a moment’s pause. “Green means the machines are going with their medical equipment. I’ll bet it’s the same for everything else.”

“Okay.” Samael took a deep breath, his finger hovering over the button.

“Oh for—here.” Gabriel grabbed the _vidcom_ from his hands and pushed the green button, eliciting a loud chiming noise from the device.

For a long moment nothing happened, and Samael was afraid that they had done something wrong. And then the screen lit up, and in a burst of light, a face popped up in startling dimension above the screen. _“People for Angels for People, Brussels division. Tara speaking. I thought I told you to stop calling, Vic…” The woman trailed off, her lined face twisting with surprise. “Aw, Hell. I’m guessing if Victor gave you two his com, things can’t be going so good.”_

_“Victor is Agent Henriksen?”_ Samael asked.

_“Yep.”_ The woman shook her head. _“You two need something?”_

_“Yes,”_ Gabriel cut in before Samael could reply. _“We need to get back to our tribe, on the other side of the sea. We’re being held hostage here, apparently waiting for interrogation.”_

_“Thought you two were diplomats,”_ the woman muttered. _“Well, that’s not good. If you’re in Victor’s care, I’ve got a pretty good idea of where you are. Sit tight, and I’ll get an extraction on the way.”_

The screen blinked out before Samael and Gabriel could respond. “Well, more waiting,” Gabriel said after a long pause, flopping gracelessly to the floor. “That’s fun.”

Fun. Almost as fun as putting their fate in the hands of strange humans yet again. Samael joined Gabriel on the floor, trying desperately to ignore the feeling that whatever was going to happen was not going to be good. He was probably just being paranoid. Likely, the tense, twisting sensation in his gut was nothing more than frustration at yet another wait, at even more time stuck with humans rather than at home with his tribe.

He waited, and hoped that the strange sense of foreboding that hung over him would pass.


	19. Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After wandering the mountains for days on end, Castiel finds the angels. While there, he comes across an unpleasantly familiar face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Castiel's chapters are hard to write, for a multitude of reasons.
> 
> I feel obligated to say this. I have Dean/Castiel and Sam/Gabriel listed in the pairings. These ARE going to happen. Apparently, I don't know how to write anything but slow burn at the best of times, and considering the amount of plot in this fic, there hasn't been much time to develop romance. Especially between Dean and Cas, who haven't seen each other since chapter 4. It's still going to be a thing. I'm not a liar with my tags, I promise.
> 
> Anyways, chapter. Sorry for the obscenely long wait.

Daphne and Emmanuel dropped him near the mountains with a large bag full of dried foods and bottles of water, wearing a sturdy if small pair of their father’s shoes and a thick, warm suede jacket with slits for his wings. Castiel lingered just long enough for them to thank him, and for Daphne to point out the parts of the range least traveled by humans. “Hikers don’t go there, because mostly they don’t come back,” she said, gesturing at the looming center of the range. “I’d bet that’s where the angels live.”

Of course, getting there would be a trial and a half itself, to say nothing of finding the angels once he’d reached the general area. But at least he had a direction, more idea of where to go than he’d had when he ran from the camps at the start. So Castiel waved them off, hitched the bag onto his shoulder, and began to walk.

He had to be careful, spending hours walking with an ear alert for the sounds of hikers and campers, sleeping without truly resting just in case someone stumbled upon him. On his second day, he nearly ran straight into a group of campers and was forced to double back, hiding until the group had settled down for the night and sneaking past them as they slept. He did not sleep that night, too determined to put space between himself and the humans to stop. The next day was grueling, the world wobbly before him as he pressed on through his exhaustion, but better to stay on the move while exhausted than to risk being caught and dragged back to the hospitals.

It took him nearly a week of travel before he finally reached the part of the range where Daphne had suggested that the angels might live. By that point, he was running low on water, and had gone through at least half of his food supplies. Hopefully, Daphne was right about this area. Castiel didn’t think he’d survive long once he ran out of water.

But it rained that night, and Castiel put his empty bottles out to catch the water, shivering as cold drops of rain pattered over his exposed hands, face, and wings. Weather was something he hadn’t had to deal with very often in more than two decades. But rain was good, he reminded himself, especially if it got him more water.

Dirt had gotten into the exposed bottles when he checked them in the morning, but Castiel was too low on supplies to dump them out. He’d consumed worse in the labs, anyways. Up close, the section of range Daphne had indicated was huge, a daunting task. Castiel wandered for days, wearing out the soles of his shoes, before he came in contact with another angel.

It was wholly by chance that he ran into the angel at all, he found out later. A fledgling had gone missing, wandered off, and the tribe had sent out a search party. Castiel did not know this at the time. All he knew was that one minute he was wandering, and the next minute he was face to face with a red-haired woman, eyes huge in her face, russet wings flared with surprise.

_“Who are you?”_ she asked, Enochian words so strange, so painfully nostalgic. Some of the breeding angels had still spoken their mother tongue; Castiel had not heard it in more than snippets in more than thirty years. But he hadn’t entirely forgotten the language of his childhood, the one he had spoken for the first fifteen years of his life.

_“My name is Castiel,”_ he said, the words thick and clumsy on his tongue. _“Are you free? Can you help me?”_

The woman nodded, staring at him, wide-eyed. _“Of course,”_ she said, clasping her hands in front of herself respectfully. Belatedly, Castiel remembered to do the same. _“You’ve escaped from humans?”_ she asked, gesturing to him.

Castiel nodded, and the woman took a deep breath, clasping him on the shoulder. _“My name is Anael,”_ she said slowly, enunciating clearly. _“I’m a Blighthealer. Well, a Blighthealer in training. Are you hurt? Do you need healing?”_

Castiel shook his head. He wouldn’t have thought that angels needed medics of their own—wasn’t healing supposed to be a natural thing for them all? _“I need somewhere safe,”_ he said.

_“I can help you with that,”_ Anael assured him. _“Follow me. I’ll take you to Lucifer. He’s a member of our council, who’s been taking in freed and escaped angels.”_

Castiel was relieved to hear that there were more like him who had escaped the horrors of the hospitals. Anael smiled at him and spread her wings for flight, taking off into the sky. Clumsily, Castiel spread his wings and followed her, flapping for height and trailing behind her as she flew towards one of the central mountains.

Anael landed on a sturdy wooden platform, barely visible from the surrounding trees. A strong wooden building jutted out from the tree’s branches, smaller than any building Castiel had ever seen, smaller even than A—his old tormentor’s home. Unused to landing on such a small area, Castiel had to maneuver carefully, concentrating all his energy on not missing the platform and plummeting to the rocky ground below. Anael reached out an arm to steady him as he landed and rapped on the door, then took a step back and stood with her hands clasped before her.

The door swung inward, revealing a tall, proud angel, his floor-length blond hair hanging loose around a scarred face, cloth draped loosely around his body. _“Anael?”_ he said curiously. _“I thought you were part of the party out looking for Israfel.”_

_“I was,”_ Anael said politely, _“but I found someone else. Lucifer, this is Castiel.”_ She beckoned him forward. _“I know you have seven staying with you, but do you have room for another?”_

Lucifer’s pale eyes seemed to soften as they swept over Castiel. _“I can make room,”_ he said, turning to Castiel. “Come in,” he said in accented English. Castiel blinked, surprised. “You’re safe here.”

Safe. For the first time in his life, Castiel could believe it. Something seemed to crumble in him; a tear slipped down his face, then another, and another. Trembling with relief, Castiel stepped over the threshold, staring around in wonder. Carved wooden walls were lit by globes of light; simple furnishings adorned the floor, and hanging cloths separated off what might have been other rooms. Off to one side, several angels sat hunched over a pile of scrolls, urged on by a heavyset, elderly angel with scraggly hair. From the one angel’s missing arm and another’s stump wings, they might have escaped testing labs themselves, he thought. But none of them seemed frightened; the few that looked up when he stepped in nudged at the others, gesturing to him and whispering gleefully.

Safe. He really was safe.

The angel with stumps for wings, who couldn’t have been more than forty himself, stood up and walked over to Castiel, beaming. “Hello!” he said cheerfully, wing stumps fluttering with excitement. “I’m Samandriel. Are you one of the ones they let go?”

“I—” Castiel swallowed hard around the lump in his throat. “No,” he said finally. “They were going to keep me there. I ran.”

A warm, comforting hand settled on Castiel’s shoulder. He glanced up, his lips twisting into a watery smile as his eyes came to rest upon Lucifer’s face. “That’s very brave of you,” Lucifer said softly. “I’m too familiar with what it takes to escape humanity. Anael said your name is Castiel, right?”

Castiel nodded. “Yes,” he said, swallowing back tears.

“It must have taken you great strength and courage,” Lucifer said, squeezing his shoulder. “We’re glad you found us. Do you have a home and family to go back to?”

Castiel shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut. “I was born there,” he said softly.

“I see,” Lucifer said, his voice grave. “There’s not much room here, but you can stay as long as is necessary. The other new arrivals are having a lesson with Metatron Lorekeeper to learn Enochian speech and writing, as well as our history. You may join them, if you like. Or you can find something else to do.”

Castiel glanced at the angels in the corner, namely the pompous looking elderly man. “I don’t know,” he said softly. “I’ve never had much in the way of choices.”

“So I’ve heard,” Lucifer said, his voice sad. “Few of the angels who have come here have much understanding of free will. Humanity has made every attempt to ruin us for it.” He sighed, shaking his head.

A hard rap sounded against the door, and Lucifer took his hand from Castiel’s shoulder to go answer it. _“Thaddeus,”_ he said in greeting to the cruel-faced angel who stood in the doorway.

_“Lucifer,”_ the angel said, pressing his lips together tightly. _“He’s stopped eating again.”_

Lucifer sighed, his shoulders slumping. _“Of course he has,”_ he said, sounding annoyed. _“Eventually, he’ll figure out that this hunger strike of his isn’t going to work.”_

_“If you’ll give me permission, I could always make him eat,”_ the stranger said, sounding vaguely eager. Something twisted in Castiel’s stomach; that didn’t sound pleasant.

_“Thaddeus, we’ve been over this. He is not to be harmed. None of them are. Be grateful that the council saw fit to reinstate your position after what you did to Abner.”_ From Lucifer’s tone, he didn’t care for the other angel very much.

_“What do you want me to do, let him starve himself?”_ the angel demanded, steel grey wings flaring indignantly.

Lucifer shook his head. _“Let me finish dressing. I’ll talk to him. Watch him, but do not touch him,”_ he ordered, shutting the door firmly in the other angel’s face.

_“What’s going on?”_ Castiel asked, watching nervously as Lucifer picked up several bands from the table and began wrapping them around his hair.

Lucifer looked down, his fingers flying over bands and hair, forming a thick braid. _“You speak Enochian. That’s good. Only two of the other new arrivals could speak it when they got here,”_ he said, refusing to meet Castiel’s eyes.

Castiel tilted his head, and Lucifer sighed. _“The others here did not escape on their own,”_ he said finally. _“They were brought here by a human. We had thought to work with him as a liason, to help free our brothers and sisters, but when the time came for the Council of Three to make a difficult decision, he opposed us. He is in our prisons now, for his safety and ours.”_

Castiel swallowed hard, some of the warm feeling of safety fading. _“Humans know where we are?”_ he croaked.

Lucifer shook his head, tying off his braid. _“No,”_ he said, casting a reassuring gaze at Castiel. _“Just this one. We sent my brother and ward among humanity two seasons ago to plead for our freedom. They told him how to find us, so he could bring escaped angels here.”_

That was a little bit comforting, Castiel supposed. _“But you said he stood against you,”_ he said quietly.

Lucifer nodded. _“It’s just as bad for humanity to keep some angels as slaves as it is to keep all of us,”_ he said heavily. _“Our council has declared war. Most other councils from the other tribes have declared war along with us. The human opposed our decision.”_

_“Oh.”_ At least he hadn’t done something worse, like try to drag more angels into slavery.

_“Yes,”_ Lucifer said with a sigh. _“It’s a shame. I like Dean. He has a good heart. But he can never fully understand the pain that humans have caused us, or comprehend exactly what is at stake.”_

Dean. The blood drained from Castiel’s face at the name. It couldn’t be the same human. Surely there were plenty of humans out there with the name Dean. It could be quite common, for all he knew.

_“And you’re going to see him?”_ Castiel asked, his voice quavering. He had to know. He needed to know if it was the same Dean who had caused him so much suffering.

_“Apparently, I have to,”_ Lucifer said, scowling. _“He doesn’t speak Enochian, and I’m the only member of the tribe who speaks_ English.”

Castiel nodded slowly, his heart pounding in his chest. _“Can I—”_ his voice gave. He took a deep breath, willing himself to calm down. _“Can I come with you?”_

0o0o0o0o0

_“You haven’t flown much, have you?”_ Lucifer asked as he led the way through winding corridors carved into the mountains.

Castiel shook his head. _“I was never allowed,”_ he said quietly.

Lucifer grimaced. _“It shows,”_ he said grimly. _“You fly well for someone who is inexperienced, but you waste too much energy flapping. Are your wing joints tired?”_

They were, not that Castiel had been planning on saying anything. _“I can send you to some of the fledgling instructors. They’ve been working with most of the new arrivals, along with their ordinary charges,”_ Lucifer said. He stopped at a large, heavy looking door and pressed a hand to the center. The door groaned, opening as though through magic. Castiel watched with wide eyes, peering down the corridor.

When he thought of prisons, he thought of cramped cages and exposure, or barracks lined with whip-wielding guards. The long, straight hall before him consisted of cells carved into stone, marked by heavy wooden doors. They looked fairly large, at least at a glance. Castiel relaxed, tension he had not even realized he was carrying bleeding from his body. _“It’s not what I expected,”_ he said quietly.

Lucifer glanced at him. _“We’re not barbarians, like humans,”_ he said. _“We don’t cage people needlessly. Our prisons are for those who are a threat to the community, and no one else. Even then, torment and physical punishment are not to be meted out except in extreme cases. Thaddeus would do well to remember that,”_ he added dryly.

Castiel nodded and followed Lucifer to a door about halfway down the corridor. Lucifer slid open several latches and opened the door, stepping inside. _“You’re sure you want to come?”_

Castiel nodded and followed him in, looking around. The cell was spacious, as it had seemed on the outside. Smooth stone walls seemed designed to not restrict airflow, and there were no signs of shackles or racks or anything else Castiel would have expected.

He turned his gaze to the human on the bed. Even without seeing his face, Dean Winchester’s form was distinctive. Light hair and golden skin, paler than Castiel remembered. His clothes were dirty and ragged, but a neatly folded pile of cloth similar to Lucifer’s own clothing suggested that it was not from lack of options.

“You can’t make me eat.” Dean’s low voice sounded ragged and tired in Castiel’s ears. “I already told your goon. I’m not hungry. He can beat on me all he wants, I’m not eating unless I want to.”

“Beat on you?” Lucifer asked, sounding slightly concerned. “I hope that is some sort of human slang.”

Dean turned his head slightly. Castiel took a step back, biting his cheek to stop any noise from escaping. The side of Dean’s face was purple and swollen. “Means he came in here and beat the shit outta me,” Dean snapped. “Well, too fucking bad for him. I’m not eating.”

Lucifer exhaled, crossing the room swiftly. “I’ll call a Blighthealer,” he said quietly. “No one on the council authorized this. Thaddeus will be dealt with at the next council meeting.”

“Yeah, that helps my face right now,” Dean said, twisting his body around and glaring at Lucifer. “It’s not my fault I’m not…” his voice trailed off as he caught sight of Castiel. The eye that wasn’t swollen shut widened; he took a deep, shuddering breath. “Castiel?” he whispered, his shocked voice barely audible.

Castiel clenched his fists, emotions warring inside him. Dean was hurt. He was hurt, he was imprisoned, he was already paying for his crimes, in a sense. But he had still hurt Castiel, had still sentenced him to weeks of agony and torture, no matter what his intent. And he had the audacity, the gall, to look at him as though he was happy to see him? Or perhaps concerned for him? “Dean,” he said coldly, glaring at him.

Lucifer frowned. _“Castiel, is this why you wanted to see him?”_ he asked, an edge creeping into his voice. _“You know him?”_

Castiel nodded, taking a deep breath. “Do you know what they did to me?” he asked angrily. “After you made that video?”

“Cas, no,” Dean breathed, shaking his head. Cas? Now he was giving him a nickname? “I swear, I had no idea they were gonna do that. I—” he swallowed hard. “I was trying to help.”

“Of course you were.” Fury coursed through Castiel’s veins; it was only Lucifer’s presence and the bruising already on Dean’s face that kept him from crossing the cell and wrapping his hands around the human’s throat. “You could have gotten me out first. But you didn’t. You _left_ me there. You left me there, and when Alastair came for me in the morning…” He couldn’t finish. Castiel closed his eyes, breathing in deeply. Calm. He needed to calm himself, before he did something rash.

“It was stupid of me,” Dean whispered. “So stupid. I just didn’t think. I wanted to get the word out, that angels can think, that angels are _people._ I thought, once people knew, there’d be enough backlash against using angels like that, you’d be safe. Cas, if I knew you were gonna get hurt, I’d have found a way to get you out first.”

Castiel shook his head, trembling. “You promised,” he whispered finally. “You promised you’d come for me. Did you even _look_ for me?”

The guilty expression on Dean’s face said enough. Castiel turned and bolted out of the cell, sprinting down the corridor, away from the prison, away from the human that had done this to him. Breathing hard, he leaned against the wall, struggling to get his racing heart under control.

Dean hadn’t even looked for him. He had made the video and left, left Castiel to the mercy of his captors. He’d used him and thrown him away when he was done, like so much trash. Just another angel. Expendable. One of a multitude.

Castiel had no doubt that had he not been pulled from that hell by someone else, Dean would have left him there to die.


End file.
